


Cold

by caricari



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 12 Days of Christmas, 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Eventual Smut, Finally completed!, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Historical References, M/M, Rating May Change, Rating has absolutely changed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 78,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21953461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caricari/pseuds/caricari
Summary: 12 days of Christmas, through the years. A few snapshots of A&C between the first Christmas and present day. Rated for chapter 8.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 141
Kudos: 228





	1. Bethlehem

_Roughly 2019 years ago, possibly in December…_

They spend the first Christmas huddled together for warmth under a large tree. It’s freezing, the night air creeping under the folds of their cloaks and chilling their skin. A winter storm has been brewing for days. There is rain carried on the wind. Almost frozen but not quite snow. Still wet and uncomfortable. 

Crawley shivers at it all, pressed against the trunk of the tree. 

The demon always seems colder than the rest of humanity. Colder than the angel. It cannot be because he was made for Hell - because Hell is both warmer and colder than Earth, at the same time. There’s just something about his body which makes life uncomfortable. He’s never had any spare flesh. His skin has always been too pale for the burning sun. His eyes always too sensitive to its golden light. He’s always had to struggle to keep his mortal heart ticking over, to keep his mortal skin happy wrapped around his mortal bones. His body seems to need too greedily. Needs food, drink, attention, touch. It is easier to expend magic on it than try and fulfil its needs in an Earthly fashion. He cannot live like a human does. Like Aziraphale, who pretends to be a human so well. He’s not like the angel. Life has never sat easy in his bones. 

Aziraphale is warm at his elbow, now. Unlike the demon, he seems made for life on Earth. Perhaps it is a gift from God - a sign of Her favour. He always seems well. His body strong, flesh full and skin bright. He thrives in the desert summers and the cold of winter. Even now, he looks comfortable as he stares out at the freezing rain, pouring down beyond the limits of their pine tree’s branches. (Though Crawley suspects there he is expending some minor miracle to stop the raindrops from permeating sparse needles). He looks calm, replete. 

Pressed against the rough bark of the tree’s trunk, Crawley tugs his inner cloak more tightly around his waist, then his outer cloak more tightly around his shoulders. His legs are pulled up tight, thighs against his chest, feet over one another inside their leather wrappings to try and keep his toes from freezing solid. His muscles are contracting to try and heat him. His teeth are chattering. Beside him, Aziraphale looks comfortable.

“Do you think it’s happened yet?” He asks the angel, seeking distraction from his discomfort. 

Aziraphale’s eyes are fixed on a line of flickering gold light, creeping around the lintel of a wooden doorframe. The doorframe belongs to a lean-to stable, which probably holds out the rain little better than their tree. Inside the shelter are a human man, a human woman, and - soon - a not quite human child.

“I imagine we’ll know when it does,” he murmurs, voice very soft, very peaceful. It’s at odds with the shuddering of Crawley’s bones. 

“How?”

“There’ll be a sign.”

The demon huffs out a breath. 

“Well. I hope it’s over soon. Bloody nasty business, childbirth,” he mutters, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders. “Ever seen it? It’s all screaming, and fluids, and tearing, and more screaming. Not nice at all.” He pulls a face. “Humans should just lay eggs, like any sensible creature.”

Aziraphale spares a glance for him. 

“Like snakes, you mean?” 

It is as close to a joke as anything that has passed between them in centuries. 

They rarely see one another, these days. In the beginning, there had been fewer humans and it had been hard not to bump into one another, every few decades. Now, their respective tasks take them across wide swathes of the earth’s surface. The demon has travelled across deserts and mountains and seas. He has seen the rise and fall of empires. He has seen the rise and fall of races and peoples. He has seen God and the world take from humanity, and he has seen them grow, and build, and invent, and create as well. Crawley is not naturally inclined to praise God’s work, but he thinks She made a good investment, when She made humanity. He couldn't see them petering out anytime soon. 

Their work will keep them in close approximation over the next few decades, though, the demon thinks, watching the angel. There are things at play, tonight, which will have long-lasting affects for humanity. There are prophecies, and stars, and a hope of absolution, and they both have a role to play in it all - for better or for worse. He and Aziraphale will probably be seeing rather a lot of one another. 

The demon wonders if he’ll survive it. It’s been a while since they’ve witnessed one another doing anything that might give either of them cause to curse or smite. The demon rather thinks that this has worked in his favour. Aziraphale was the guardian of the gates of Eden, after all. Soft and warm, and happy to shelter him from the rain he might be, but the angel is powerful enough to raze cities if he needs to. A demon, however talented in bending the minds and physical laws of Earth, cannot match that sort of Heavenly power. 

He hopes that Aziraphale will not be driven to using that power, in these coming years - that the angel will not grow tired of his presence, or enraged at what he has been sent here to do. Crawley does not want to have to fight, or curse, or be smote. He doesn’t fancy discorporation. It would drive a strange wedge between them. They’ve never been like that, before. Since the beginning, they have always been cordial - unlike the other angels and demons, the other counterparts of Earth. They might be diametric opposites, but Crawley quite likes Aziraphale. The angel can be irritating and a little pompous, but he’s clever, and well read, and he has the most wonderful stories that he’s always willing to share, if the demon gives him half a chance. He’s really not bad company. 

“Some snakes lay eggs,” he offers his hereditary enemy, drawing his mind back to the conversation at hand. “Others give birth to live young. There are different types.” 

“I did not know that.” 

Aziraphale dips his head, as if to thank him for this little piece of information. 

His shoulder presses warmly against Crawley’s, as he does so, and the demon has to resist the urge to lean into it - has to resist the urge to throw his cloak over both of them and curl up against the angel’s side. The cold is bone-deep in his mortal body and he craves the heat the angel is wasting, out into the air around them. He’s greedy for it. It wouldn’t even matter that such proximity to Aziraphale’s holiness is likely to cause a burning of his demonic soul. He imagines he could deal with the juxtaposition of the two of them, for a time, if it meant that his teeth would stop chattering. 

“Did you ever meet Aristotle of Stagira?” The angel asks, beside him. “Plato’s student?”

“Yes. Why?”

“He did this marvellous experiment with chicken eggs. Opened twenty one of them, one each day later, throughout the period of incubation. Was able to show the little chicks growing inside.”

“Killed the little chicks growing inside, I imagine,” Crawley grumbles. 

“Well, yes,” the angel concedes, “he did. But it rather did away with the concept of fully formed offspring existing inside the parent animal, ready to spring into existence and grow. The chicks came from something which had neither shape, nor size. There was nothing, and then there was form, and then there was life.” He beams. “It was very clever.”

“And I suppose you credit this as one of your lot’s?”

“Well, naturally.”

“Odd, considering how funny your lot get about the bit that precedes the begetting of offspring.”

Aziraphale turns his head slightly, fixing him with a shrewd expression. 

“Figured that out, did you?”

“Eh?”

“The bit that precedes… why we don’t have any unicorns anymore?”

Crawley feels heat creep across his cheeks.

Truth be told, he really hadn't really thought about what preceded the begetting, before the flood. He’d always assumed that the creation of offspring was something separate to the things that humans did in their daily lives for sustenance, or pleasure - something explicit. But then he had noticed unicorns weren't a thing, after the flood, and he had asked about it, and, well…

“You could have told me they needed both of them, you know,” he snips, at Aziraphale. “Would have saved everyone a lot of bother. Shem got a right bollocking when his father found out.”

“I assumed you already knew and were just being facetious!”

“Why? Because i’m a demon?”

“No. Because we’d been on Earth for quite some time, by that point.”

“Well, it had never been relevant, before.” Pulling his cloak tighter, Crawley pretends not to notice that the flush has crept up, along the long bridge of his nose, and right across his forehead. Even the tips of his ears burn. “I mean, humans get up to all sorts. How is anyone possibly supposed to figure out which bits lead to offspring? It’s not as if our lot tend to do extensive follow-up work.”

“I imagine that’s led to a few near misses…” 

The angels eyes are twinkling with what Crawley feels is a wholly unnecessary amount of amusement. 

"Not really," the demon admits. "Wasn't hugely relevant - as I said.” He squirms slightly on his cold patch of earth. He’s not sure why he’s volunteering this information, only that it makes him feel less stupid about the whole unicorn thing. “I might shift between bodies but my preferences don’t. And it doesn't matter how enthusiastic you are, male humans don't make babies.” 

He says it to make Aziraphale blush, but the angel just smiles a little wider instead, eyes dancing over his side-profile. 

Crawley expects a follow-up on the comment - perhaps a little tease about how he should be spreading temptation more equally, throughout the world - but his counterpart lets his admission lie. (Perhaps he will bring it up and use it against him, one day. Or, perhaps, he really is just happy to know that Crawley is a bit of a shit demon, with a little too much fondness for humanity and the specific little life that he leads, wrapped up inside his human skin. Very unlikely to cause any real trouble). 

Giving a little sigh, Aziraphale turns his face back towards the stable and the demon does the same, and they sit in silence, for a while, listening to the rain pick up beyond the reaches fo their tree’s thick pine needles. 

Eyes fixed on the flickering light of a candle, behind the closed door of the stable, their ears and noses pick out signs of human life from around the village. In the middle distance, two humans are arguing about a goat. Children are chattering, within the walls of a nearby house. There is revelry occurring, in the common room of the local inn. Crawley can hear laughter, and the noise of cups being filled, and the shuffling of feet. Somewhere, not too far away, food is cooking. Steam rises from under a crack in a roof and the demon can smell spices. Sumac and pepper, and something sweeter. Perhaps cardamon. 

Crawley is not particularly one for eating, but he would like to be inside, sharing a bowl of something, tonight. He’d happily pretend to be a human traveller, in town for the census, if it meant that he could fill his body with something warm. 

Beside him, Aziraphale continues to watch the stable steadily. 

The demon gives in. 

“It’s fucking cold,” he mutters, softly. 

“Its midwinter,” Aziraphale replies, voice serene. “It’s supposed to be cold.”

“Alright, _I’m_ fucking cold, then…”

The angel’s eyes slip over, his face dappled by the moonlight creeping out around the edges of the clouds. 

His irises never appear quite the same colour, Crawley thinks, watching them. They are green against the earthen tones of human houses, blue against desert sands and skies. Small dashes of hazel run through them sometimes - like fracture lines, splitting the mortal to reveal the angel underneath. At night, right now, they appear almost silver. 

Aziraphale does not say anything, just waits for him to make the request, with a patience born of having all the time in the world. 

“Can I sit closer?” Crawley eventually forces out. 

“Of course you can.”

The angel answers immediately, no shade of judgement or tease in him. Wearing a softly welcoming expression, he shifts one arm out to the side, lifting his cloak and inviting the serpent of Eden closer. 

They shouldn’t be able to do this, Crawley thinks - slipping his body closer across the pebbled dirt between them and pressing a shoulder into his counterpart’s soft side - shifting his legs, until they are pressed against Aziraphale, too. They shouldn’t be able to share contact like this, to stand the touch of one another, to stand the presence of one another. They should abhor one another on sight. They should fight, and curse, and discorporate, and smite - not share heat, or stories, or comfort. But they do. They always have. Aziraphale has never tried to banish him from the Earth, for demonic wiling. He has never tried to curse the angel’s plans or lead his humans astray. Despite all that their masters told them, they have found that the world is wide enough for them both to exist in careful harmony with one another. 

They fit, the demon thinks, vaguely, as he rests cautiously against his hereditary enemy’s shoulder. They balance. 

He’s still shivering badly, though. 

As his body trembles, he feels Aziraphale shift against him and wonders if the angel is going to pull away - shrink back from his not-quite-enough body, that is always too cold, or too pale, or to sharp for this world - but Aziraphale doesn’t pull away. He folds his wings in from another dimension, instead, and wraps them around the two of them. 

It is a soft, kind act, performed entirely for the demon’s benefit. The angel’s wing is warmer than any earthly blanket. As it wraps around them, unfeasibly soft feathers cradling the side of Crawley’s body, the spasms begin to lessen. His teeth cease chattering. The muscles of his abdomen begin to relax. It feels good. Aziraphale is warm and soft and strong against him. His unearthly wings are protecting them from the midwinter cold. And the demon feels warmer and safer than he has in living memory. 

“Better?” Aziraphale asks, somewhere near his temple. 

“Yeah…” He shoves his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe, wrapping fingers around his forearms. He can feel the little pricked bits of skin, the raised hairs, begin to smooth away. He feels warmth returning to his flesh again. Aziraphale, sparking life in him. “Much better. S’good.”

He allows himself a moment of feeling very grateful to have been placed here opposite this angel, and not some other faceless principality. Aziraphale, stronger than all the rest of them, who did not want to fight. 

He turns his head, slightly, pressing his face into the warmth of his counterpart’s shoulder, trying to ignore the word ‘nuzzling’ that comes to mind, as he does it. Because Crawley knows that those sort of words were not invented to describe something like him. He is not soft, or kind, or warm like the angel - or like the life that they imitate. He is not an angel, not a human, not even a mammal. He’s something dark and twisted, something burnt and scaly, thin and wanting. He’s only seeking heat, he tells himself, feeling more comfortable as he finds the excuse. He’s only seeking heat to keep himself alive, so that he may continue to tempt and wile, and curse. 

Pressing his face into Aziraphale, he thinks that that’s what he might be best at, in this world - tempting himself. For a demon to accept the warmth and kindness of an angel… it is a great temptation, indeed. 

“Wake me up if anything happens, won’t you?” He grumbles, turning his cheek into Aziraphale, so only his forehead is exposed to the cool night air. The rest of him is warm, wrapped in a cocoon of feathers, and robes, and warm flesh. Exhaustion, kept at bay all night by the cold, is suddenly sweeping though him. He feels relaxed, warm, content. “Wouldn’t be sporting to go about doing good while i’m unconscious. Doesn’t really count unless you give me a fighting chance.”

He can hear the smile in Aziraphale’s voice as he replies. 

“Of course. I quite agree.” 

“Right.” 

“I’ll wake you when something happens.” 

“Right.” 

The wing wraps a little tighter around them, bracing against a gentle breeze. The raindrops carried on it miraculously do not reach them. The pine tree overhead stays miraculously unruffled. Though it has no business doing so, the ground underneath them feels a little less frozen. 

“Night, angel.” 

“Goodnight, Crawley.” 

.


	2. Nazareth

_Ten years later…_

_._

The demon is drunk. The angel has never seen him so drunk. Crowley always goes a little overboard at the roman holidays, but this is a new low. It’s the winter solstice and some local magistrate has attempted to win the hearts and minds of the locals through the provision of wine. It was the demon’s idea. It was his idea, too, to keep the barrels refilling, late into the night. The depravity has been quite beyond expectation. The party has spilled out into the streets. Half the town is there. The other half have battened down the hatches of their little homes, shutters closed against the noise and the smell and the destruction. 

The inn will run out of bottles, in the end, but only because Aziraphale has arrived and is physically removing the demon from the premises. The demon has been in the inn since opening, at noon, and has been stirring discord amongst the revellers. From what the young messenger boy came to tell Aziraphale earlier, there have been no less than eight brawls, six commissions of adultery, two children conceived out of wedlock, and the theft of one goat. As the hour reaches midnight, Crawley is well on his way to a personal best, for a single drinking session. 

The demon is laughing incoherently as the angel drags him towards the door. He cannot stand. He’s been propped against a barrel at the back of the room, entertaining a crowd with a loud and bawdy tale about the local magistrate - whose generosity with the wine is supposed to have garnered their affections. The people had protested when the angel arrived, to drag the demon out, but a tiny miracle directed them all back to their cups. 

Aziraphale would rather have spent his magic on ensuring that they all returned safe and well to their homes, but he is busy trying to keep his hereditary enemy in an upright and intact position. Crawley’s feet are dragging against the packed dirt, his hands grasped uselessly into the neck of the angel’s robes. He is still laughing, still trying to continue his incomprehensible story. 

“And he ssssaid…” the words are barely separate through all the hissing. As Aziraphale tries to heft him more securely over his shoulder, he flops forwards, folding nearly in half. “There are ssseven… sssseven of them… not ssix… sssseven angel-,” 

His legs cross over at the feet, tangling, nearly jerking the both of them to the floor. Crawley's body is taller than Aziraphale's. The angel thinks it is a good thing that he is so light. 

“Stay still!” He admonishes, giving the demon a little shake around the side. 

Crawley splutters into another paroxysm of laughter. 

“Ssseven wives… and ssseven sssonsss… and sseven ssssinsss… get it?”

“I think you’ve missed the punchline somewhere,” the angel mutters, negotiating the doorframeof the inn with difficulty, as Crawley has decided to use this moment to straighten up and throw his arms out to the side. 

“Ssshame,” the demon slurs, “ssss’funny.” Tilting his head back, the demons makes a little movement as if he might vomit, then recovers himself, then gives another giggle. The angel spares him a disgusted glance. 

“Will you _please_ sober up?” 

“Ssshant.”

Both of his legs give out at the same time, and Aziraphale nearly folds with him. He catches the two of them just before his knees hit the ground and swears loudly. After a quick glance around himself, to make sure that no humans are watching, he throws caution to the winds and scoops the demon up off the ground entirely. 

Crawley’s body is slender. Aziraphale finds he can wrap his right arm right around the demon’s torso and still have his hand free to grab hold of his wrist, as Crawley tries to reach up to touch his face. Long legs dangling over the angel's left forearm, the demon wriggles ineffectually around for a moment, until Aziraphale gives him a rough shake and he quiets. 

“An-gel…. you ssssswore…” 

“Yes, I did. But, in my defence, you are being entirely frustrating.”

“ _Bad angel_ …” 

“Just be still, or I will sober you up, myself!” 

The demon watches him, mouth open. “You wouldn’t…”

“I would.”

“You wouldn-, wouldn’t… y’d burn me alive…” he hiccups. “Angel magic… Ssss burny… burns demonss…” Huge yellow eyes travel unsteadily over the angel’s face, watching him from beneath dark lashes. “W’d hurt…”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. 

“Okay, calm down. I’m not going to do anything to you.” He frowns. “But you _should_ sober up.”

“Ngk.”

The angel gives a sigh. “Suit yourself.” 

Hitching the demon more securely in his arms, Aziraphale looks around, spotting the road he had made his way to the inn along, earlier, and making his way towards it. It is empty, for which he is very thankful. He is not sure how he would explain his situation, to any humans they came across. He certainly does not know who he would explain it if he came across either of the guardian angels who reside in the area. 

It is a risk, coming here tonight, dragging Crawley away, but the alternative is leaving him in-situ to create havoc until morning - and Micheal is due into town, in the morning. Crawley has no idea. He would never have pulled a stunt like this if he’d known he’d have to contend with an archangel. He is always very sensible about their rivalry.

Over the last ten years, the angel has become rather used to having the demon around. They have both been following the little family from the stable down, around the eastern curve of the Mediterranean, first south to Egypt and then north to Nazareth. They see one another every few months, as their circles of influence overlap and their tasks occasionally conflict. Though they’ve long been on speaking terms, it’s the first time in history that they’ve spent an elongated time existing around one another. They even share a cup of wine, from time to time, when it is not a feast day… and Crawley isn’t being a complete nuisance. 

“You’re ssso sssstrong,” the demon slurs, in his arms, rolling his head back and letting his mouth drop open. 

He’s being dramatic and ridiculous. The angel half wants to drop him in the gutter and threaten to smite him until he sobers up - but it’s only because he’s a little frightened that someone might come across them together. (Though he could always claim to be capturing the demon in Heaven’s name, he supposes, should that come to pass). He doesn’t really want to threaten Crawley any more than he wants to sober him up with magic. He doesn’t want to harm him. Crawley might have been up to no good, tonight, but it’s only because that’s what he’s meant to do. He never does any particular harm.

“You have pretty eyesssss…” 

Looking down, he finds the demon watching him, head tilted to one side. 

“Thank you,” he mutters. 

Ridiculous, foolish demon. He should leave him here, leave him to be found by whatever horrid humans he has spend the evening stoking temptation and sin in. Leave him to suffer through the consequences of his work. That would serve him right. (Only it wouldn’t. Crawley was just being what he was made to be. And so is Aziraphale. He can no longer leave the demon to suffer humanity than he could deliver him to Micheal tomorrow morning, as a gift. In many ways, Crawley is more his colleague than the archangel. It is just the two of them down in this part of the world, after all, most of the time). 

“I lllliike you.” 

“Be quiet,” he hushes, gently. 

Crawley tucks his head in as Aziraphale shifts his grip, to cradle him more securely. His hands grip onto the front of the angel’s robes, eyes watching as his thumbs rub over the collar of them. By the time they’re back at the door of the small house, where Aziraphale has been living, his lids have slipped half closed and he is almost asleep. An accidental smack of his shins against the doorframe wakes him, however, and he gives a distressed yelp. 

Squirming, the demon nearly falls from the angel’s grasp and Aziraphale has to set him down on the floor to calm him. 

Stepping inside the house, the angel lights a lamp and kneels on front of his counterpart, asking him once more to try and sober up. Crawley actually makes an effort to do so, this time - but he’s too inebriated to work the spell. He just sits, hiccuping, until Aziraphale gives up, and moves to pick him up and carry him up stairs towards the small house’s sleeping quarters. 

“Nnnnnooo…” the demon pushes his hands away, frowning, his features thrown into sharp relief by the golden glow of the oil lamp. Grabbing at the wall, the demon tries to move back towards the door and the street, beyond. “I want…” He pulls himself onto his knees, shuffles forwards a step, then collapses back down in a pile - his legs folded untidily beneath him. “…to go back to the wine.”

“I don’t think so. You’re going to have a lot of physical healing to do tomorrow as it is. I don’t think your body can handle more wine.”

“I can ssssober up,” the demon gazes at him, imploringly. 

“I really don’t think you can.”

“I can!” Crawley squints, then gives his head a little shake. “There! Sssee? You’re much clossser…”

Aziraphale, who had just moved to crouch next to him, lifts an eyebrow. 

“I think that was much more my doing than yours, dear boy.”

“Nah…”

“Come on,” the angel gives his counterpart a smile, feeling a little fond, despite the frustration. “I think it’s best we get you upstairs to have a rest. Do you want me to carry you up or would you like to walk yourself?” 

A set of limited options was often the best approach to dealing with an intoxicated human. An intoxicated demon was likely to be little different.

Turning his head, Crawley looks up the stairs, then back at the angel. Then back at the stairs. Then he licks his lips. 

“But what about the wine?”

“The wine is gone,” the angel lies. (It’s only a little lie. And it is for the best).

“Oh…” Crawley looks distraught. “Sss’sad.”

“Yes. Very sad.” 

Aziraphale lets his eyes trail over his counterpart, picking out the softened lines of his face. There’s something very open about Crawley, drunk. Honest mouth, big golden eyes, huge black pupils. They weren't slits, right now, he thinks, watching the demon in the lamplight. They were more like long ovals, great black pits. He can see the reflection of the lamp in his hand. If he got closer, he imagines he could see the reflection of his own face. 

_He should definitely not get that close._

“Come on,” he tells the demon. “Up we go.”

He reaches out to Crawley up but, giving a dramatic wail, the demon rolls away and reaches out for the bottom step himself. 

“Don’t need your help!” 

“Very well,” Aziraphale tells him, moving in behind, expecting the demon to fall at any moment and hoping to be able to catch his head before it collides with the wall. “But they’re really rather steep, so I’m just going to hover behind you for a bit, if that’s all right?”

“M’fffffine…”

Flopping over one hip, Crawley manages to place a hand on the lowest step but sort of loses momentum there and ends up rolling onto his side, instead, face pressed against the underside of the wooden stair.

“Mleh-,”

“Don’t lick that.”

“Mmm not…”

“You are.”

“Mmf."

“Here,” reaching out, the angel rolls the demon back onto his belly. This seems to please Crawley. Some snake instinct seems to kick in, once he’s parallel to the ground, because he manages to get his arms under himself and things begin to go a bit smoother. He manages to crawl over the first and second step, without too many dramatics. The third and fourth follow, after a short break. On the fifth, he loses momentum and slips, hitting his knee. When Aziraphale moves forwards to help, however, he bats the angel’s hands away. 

“Don’t need help… can do thisssss…”

And so it is that Aziraphale spends the last half hour of Earth’s tenth Christmas coaxing his counterpart up twenty three narrow stairs - gently repositioning the demon each time he slips, and offering encouragement when he loses momentum - trying not to get hissed at too ferociously. 

By the time they emerge onto the top floor of the building, Crawley appears exhausted. Rolling over onto his back, he stares up at Aziraphale as the angel emerges behind him. 

“Did it.”

“Well done.”

The angel moves carefully into the room, stepping over the demon then shifting a heavy wooden trunk over, to block off the top of the stairwell and prevent any backwards movement. On the ground, Crawley blinks placidly up at the ceiling. He is almost asleep by the time Aziraphale comes back from lighting the rest of the room’s lamps and finding a full waterskin. 

“How are you feeling?” The angel asks him, kindly. 

“Wavy.”

Kneeling down beside the demon, the angel unstoppers the water skin and offers it out to him. 

“Drink?”

“Sss wine?”

“Absolutely not.” He lifts the skin to Crawley’s lips anyway. “Water,” he explains, “from the well outside town - the sweet one. It’s good, you should try it.”

Crawley does. Takes a few sips, then pushes Aziraphale’s hand away, but keeps his fingers wrapped around his wrist after doing so. His eyes appear very unfocussed. His mouth is still open slightly. Aziraphale can see the pink tips of his slightly forked tongue. It isn’t always forked, he thinks. It must be a drunk thing. Like the way Crawley’s irises have slipped away from their human disguise, back towards the expansive gold they had been in the garden, in the beginning. 

“Do you want to go to bed?” He asks. 

Crawley’s golden eyes focus on him, their lids slightly heavy. He’s gazing up from underneath dark lashes, pupils wide, and there is a tiny hint of intention in the look - just enough to make Aziraphale second guess whether this is not all an act, a temptation. 

The angel knows that the demon takes from humanity, like the humans take from one another. Sex is part of what he does, and not by the instruction of his masters, Aziraphale is almost sure. It’s not that unusual, for one of their kind. They were send down here in bodies, after all, able to feel like the humans do. It was move intended to give them empathy and most of them have taken avail of it. Most of them have tried a few things out. 

Aziraphale has. He was always curious and it had seemed appropriate, to understand this act which drove so much of human behaviour. So, he’s dabbled in sex. He's explored the sensations he can draw out of his man-shaped form. He’s explored how it is, to draw them from someone else’s. He’s found there are things he definitely enjoys. And he’s not completely oblivious to the fact that, if circumstances were different, some of them are things he might enjoy doing with Crawley. 

"You g'nna to take me to bed, angel?" 

"I'll _put_ you in bed."

"You could keep me warm..." 

"I'll give you a blanket. How does that sound?" 

The demon continues to stare up at him, from beneath dark lashes, then the corner of his mouth tips back, into a crooked smile. He reaches out towards Aziraphale, the little moment broken, the intention gone from his eyes. 

“Yesss… bed.” 

The angel realises he wants to be carried. 

After all that fuss, on the stairs… 

Rolling his eyes, he sets the water skin aside and leans in. It’s easy to get the demon into his arms, this time. Crawley is light and very willing. He wraps arms around the back of Aziraphale’s neck as he’s pulled from the floor, curling his body so he’s easier to hold. Muttering how ridiculous his counterpart is being against the side of his neck, Aziraphale carries him carefully over to the straw pallet on the far side of the room, under the low eaves of the roof, and deposits him on top of it. The demon makes a happy little noise as he finds himself surrounded by linen. 

Retrieving the water skin, Aziraphale moves to sit on the edge of the bed, beside him. 

“Drink?” He offers it out.

The demon takes it. Drinks. Then lifts a hand up, to pat the side of the angel’s face. 

“You’re very ssstrong, angel.”

“I don’t know why you’re surprised,” Aziraphale murmurs, more to himself than the demon, because he’s fairly sure Crawley is beyond conversation and probably memory, at this moment in time. As his counterpart tries to pat his face again, he intercepts the fingers and wraps his own around them - leaving them in a strange little hand hold. “The Lord would not have chosen me to guard the gate if I wasn’t strong.”

“Ngk… to guard the gate,” the demon mirrors, words terribly slurred. 

“Yes.”

“Yesss...”

A smile stretches Aziraphale’s mouth - cannot help it. 

The demon smiles back up at him, eyes very wide, expression very honest. 

“You like me,” he slurs, after ten seconds or so have passed.

That surprises the angel. He blinks, feeling a rush of uncertainty. It’s not an accusation, nor a challenge. It’s just a statement - and it is really quite soft and gentle, Aziraphale thinks. And true. 

That’s perhaps what makes Aziraphale feel uncomfortable, actually. It is true. Despite knowing that he should find the demon abhorrent, should want to destroy him, should want wipe all traces of him from the world, he does like Crawley. His counterpart is clever and interesting, and cares very deeply about the world around him - though he always pretends not to. He is wrapped in chaos and Aziraphale does not always approve of his methods. He wants to tell the demon to take a breath, sometimes, to slow down, to just live for a while. But there is also something a bit beautiful about the forceful way Crawley throws himself around the world. He likes the demon. He really does.

For a moment, though he knows his rooms are protected - though he knows that none of the other angels of Earth know where he is, at this moment in time - Aziraphale feels like there are eyes watching them. He feels exposed. 

“Pardon?” He blusters, looking down at his counterpart. 

Crawley looks up at him, expression almost naive in its honesty. 

“You let me sssstay in your bed.” Hair tangled like fire around him, the demon stretches out in his human form. Sliding one foot up, towards his own rear, he lets his knee fall outwards, into Aziraphale’s side - a gentle nudge, a second point of contact. They are still holding hands. It is probably a little too intimate, but Aziraphale feels it would be more telling to let go, now, than keep holding on. “You brought me back…” Crawley continues, staring up at him. “Kept me ssssafe… didn’t ssssmite me… didn’t dissssc’prate me…” 

“Well,” Aziraphale flushes. “It would hardly have counted as a great victory for Heaven, smiting an intoxicated demon.”

“Even the great sssserpent?” 

They are both just playing roles, the angel thinks, looking down at the intoxicated serpent demon. They are both sent here by their masters for specific purpose. They have no real choice. It is all just a game, he thinks, staring down into Crawley’s beautiful golden eyes. Only it isn’t. It is also their lives. 

Does Crawley ever feel that twist in him, he wonders? Does he ever yearn for something more? 

“Yes,” Aziraphale murmurs, rubbing a thumb over the back of the demon’s hand. “Even the mighty serpent of Eden.” 

“Heh-,” 

Crawley’s skin is warm. The bones beneath it are hard, their edge sharp, but there is softness about him, too. He’s graceful and almost breakable in Aziraphale’s hands, despite the forcefulness of his presence. He is a creature full of contradictions; made to inspire curiosity just as Aziraphale is made to guard. 

Perhaps it is inevitable that they drift together, over time, the angel thinks. Perhaps they were never meant to be like other enemies. Perhaps it is okay that they are able to share space in this world - that Aziraphale does not want to threaten him, or smite him, or discorporate him. Perhaps it is okay that he likes Crawley and that he allows him to shelter in his life, in his rooms, in his bed - like he once sheltered the demon under his wing. 

They are opposite sides of something. Not parallel, but mirrored - complete. 

“I like you,” Crawley slurs, eyes falling to their joined hands. “Sssssometimess it feelss like it’ss jusst the two of usss, up here.” His lips stay slightly parted, the inside of them very pink, the twin points of his tongue just visible behind the white of his teeth. Aziraphale can see the sharp fangs that border his incisors. Something of the snake. Something not human, not angel. “Sss’ lonely sometimesss… but then... you’re here... ssso it’ss not.” Stretching out his fingers, Crawley presses their palms together. Their digits fall easily between one another’s, then close and squeeze. Crawley looks up, suddenly, looking a little worried. “Think I might be ‘bit drunk…”

Aziraphale laughs. He cannot help himself. 

Fondness rushes over him in a big wave and, in the moment, he cannot bring himself to feel worried about liking the demon, or holding his hand. It’s late and Crawley is very drunk, and neither of them will hold one other to anything said tonight, come the morning. The demon probably will not even remember any of this, the angel thinks. And the whole situation is strangely sweet, besides.

“I think you are a bit,” he agrees with his counterpart, giving his hand a little squeeze. “I like you too, Crawley. Even if you can be a complete nuisance.” 

“Am s’posed to be,” the demon slurs up at him. “Demon, and all…”

“I know.” 

Aziraphale gives the warm hand one last squeeze, letting himself enjoy the warmth flowing through his chest for a few more moments, then he stands and watches as Crawley’s long limbs fall back around him, on the bed. The demon’s hand falls palm-up, fingers still loosely parted, as if waiting for his to slide back between them. 

“Goodnight, Crawley,” the angel says, softly. 

“Night, angel.” 

As he walks back across the room, Crawley’s large, golden eyes follow him. They follow him as he moves about the places, drawing a curtain over the small window and extinguishing all but one of the oil lamps. They follow him as he makes his way over to the small grate where he usually makes his meals, and as he stoops down, to gather all he needs to boil water. 

Fiddling with flint and kindling, the angel looks away for a while and, by the time the water is on its way to boiling and he looks back, Crawley has drifted away, into sleep. The lines of his body are long and relaxed. His face is smooth, forehead unlined and expression endlessly calm. His hand is still lying palm up, reaching out towards Aziraphale. 

A strange little twist happens, deep in the angel's gut. 

He does like Crawley. He likes the demon far more than he should and he knows it’s probably not okay. It will lead to hurt, one day, he is sure of it. But it’s as the demon said, (drunk as he is, there is still truth to it) Sometimes, it feels as thought it’s just the two of them, against the world. There are other angels and demons, yes, but they are a rotating cast of faces - never staying long enough to become familiar. It’s Crawley who is threaded through Aziraphale’s history. It’s the demon who makes him feel not-alone, clinging to the surface of this world, in his borrowed human skin. 

The angel adds honey to the water, sips at it for a few minutes, watching the demon. Then he walks carefully back over and sits beside him on the straw pallet, slipping a hand forwards to fit their palms together, smiling as Crawley’s fingers reflexively close around his, and they stay that way until long after his drink is finished and the distant light of dawn is painting the horizon. 

.


	3. Wessex

_500, anno Domini_

It is damp. It is disgustingly, abhorrently damp. The whole country is damp. It’s a mildewy, festering, boggy, marshy stupid place to be posted. Crowley hasn’t got the foggiest what anyone would be hoping to accomplish by such a moist backwater of a landmass. He’d thought the north of France was bad but this, this brought new meaning to his previous experience of unpleasant living conditions.

He is fairly sure his feet have not been dry since he stepped off the boat at the damp cliffs, amidst the driving rain of a winter squall. Since then, things have not improved. He’s tried going barefoot, but it’s too cold. He’s tried waxed cotton, and leather, and padding, and layers. He’s tried magic and changing his socks three times a day, and even some poultice an old medicine woman offered him, down a local village. None of it works. His skin is folded and pale, beneath his shoes - wrinkled as if it’s trying to slough away from him, as if it can sense the snake he is, under his mortal shell.

The angel’s tent is warm, though. It is a golden beacon of warmth.

Crowley had spotted it from nearly two miles away. It is the dead of a midwinter night, after all, and snakes can sense heat. He had been squelching through a clearing when he sensed it, initially - daydreaming about mead and a warm fire, and a roof over his head for the night. Something in the shifting lines of the place had caught his attention and he had paused, then reached out into the darkness to investigate further.

His investigations had uncovered a nest of protective wards, further up the hill. The magic had felt familiar, so he had taken a risk and followed the trail, and that’s where he had found Aziraphale - sitting in a little waxed cotton tent, halfway a hillside, somehow warm and inviting despite the lateness and wetness of the hour.

So it is, then, that the demon finds himself standing outside the tent, not quite sure how to announce his presence. He supposes he has to. Aziraphale’s wards had not included him in the list of nasties they were there to protect against. Crowley had wandered right past them, without so much as a frisson of warning. Clearly, Aziraphale knew he was in the area and did not mind a visit. But knocking was only polite.

Taking a tentative step forwards, the demon clears his throat.

“Angel?”

Lowering a hand to the tent flap, he pulls it back, just far enough to glimpse the faint glow of a fire and the back of a round shoulder. Then, the water that has been collecting above the tent’s door is released - plunging down upon his head.

He swears, pulling roughly away.

A rush of irrational anger shoots through him - at the angel’s stupid tent, at the country, at the goddamned rain that never stops… Swiping at his forehead, he sluices the worst from his eyes, spits the worst from his mouth, clearing his view just in time to see Aziraphale popping his head out between the tent flaps.

“Crawley?”

“It’s Crowley!” The demon snaps. The angel is taking a ridiculously long time to get used to the name change. The demon would think he was doing it on purpose, if he hadn’t known Aziraphale’s memory was just that bad.

“Oh, of course! My apologies, dear boy,” the angel beams at him. “How are you?”

The demon stares for a moment.

“How do I look?” He asks, trying to keep the sarcasm to a minimum.

Aziraphale eyes him up and down.

“Wet.”

“Right in one.”

Tilting his head slightly, the angel’s eyes - a little blue, a little green, today - perform another sweep of his sodden hair and clothes, then he gives another wide smile.

“Come in and dry off?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Crawley grumbles.

Pushing through the tent flaps, the demon finds himself in a cosy but well-proportioned room - not remotely the right size to have fitted inside the exterior of the tent without significant alteration by magic. Clearly, Aziraphale was not above the frivolous use of miracles to provide home comforts.

“Bugger me, it’s cold.”

Throwing his bedroll and bags down, he reaches up and pulls the cloak from over his back.

He’s not in armour underneath, like he had been when they’d met three months previous. A human masquerades as the Dark Knight in the low country, now. Crowley had pawned the job off with claims that they were a better fit - much more intimidating and a much better swordsmen. Humans were easy to convince.

Having hung up his chainmail, the demon has decided to head to Camelot - try his hand at political intrigue for a while. He has a few good plans involving a prophecy, a love triangle, and a bit of jealousy. 

“Nice place,” he comments, looking around the tent, then back at the angel.

Aziraphale smiles again, then busies himself shuffling about the place, pulling from his trunk a thick woollen blanket. The demon takes it, momentarily gripping the angel’s free arm in greeting as he does so.

“Thanks, angel.”

“Not at all. How are you?” His old friend asks.

“Bloody soaked. Stupid country. Haven’t been able to feel my bloody toes for days.”

Giving that prissy little ‘oh that won’t do’ look that only Aziraphale could give so well, the angel motions for him to move over towards the fire and rushes off to pick up a spare skin of wine and another blanket. By the time he returns to the fireside, Crowley has already divested himself of his boots and the top two layers of clothing.

“You don’t mind, do you?” He asks, belatedly. 

The angel shakes his head.

“No, no. By all means…” Waving his hand, to light another oil lamp, the angel takes the demon’s discarded tunic and hangs it up near the fire. Then, a tiny frown graces his forehead. “Do you think it would harm you, if I dried it using magic?” He asks.

Crowley considers the offer.

“Dunno… Might be worth a try. My drying spells never seem to work right. Things do get dry, but they always feel just as cold as they were when they were wet. Clearly it’s not within a demonic skillset.”

“Would you mind if...?”

“Nah, go on.”

A wave of the hand and Crowley’s tunic and outer robe are hanging, dry, on front of the flames.

Tentatively, Crowley reaches out and touches the edge of a hem. It doesn’t burn. Though the leftover effects of the angel’s magic does tingle, a little.

“Well, that’s promising,” he looks back around, at the angel, who is looking mightily pleased with himself. “Want to try doing the rest of my gear while it’s on me, or shall I strip down?”

The slight flush that paints Aziraphale’s cheeks, at his words, makes him feel a great fondness for the strange, fussy angel. As if they haven’t seen one another in just their skin, before… They’ve been on Earth so long they must have seen one another in every possible permutation, Crowley thinks. Only Aziraphale could possibly get weird about nudity with someone he’d known for four and a half thousand years. Ridiculous angel.

“Why don’t you take the undershirt off and I’ll do that for you, now,” his counterpart suggests, instead. “Then we can do the bottom half. It’s cold, even by the fire. And I don’t think I should like to use the spell so close to your skin… Just in case.” His eyes dart over Crowley, but he manages not to blush any more and the demon - glad to have shelter from the storm - decides not to tease him about it.

“Fair enough,” 

He strips off his undershirt and sits, in cotton shorts, while Aziraphale dries it off then hangs it near the fire with the robe.

“Give it a moment or two, for any residual magic to disperse.”

“Yeah, all right.”

Pulling one of the thick blankets over his middle, the demon drapes the second over his shoulders. His shaggy, collar-length hair is beginning to dry, forming half curls. It probably looks quite a state. He cannot remember the last time he was able to lie in the sun and brush it out, properly. It needs a good cut. And a good comb. He needs a good swim in a warm sea, and a long lie on a hot rock, afterwards. He misses warm waters and hot beaches. He misses Egypt and Jaffa.He misses Crete.

He remembers bumping into Aziraphale there, once. The angel had been living in a little cove, just along the coast from a great sea port. The two of them had run into one another, quite by chance, and they had spent a day together. They’d swum in the ocean and cooked the fishes Crowley caught over an open fire, on the beach, afterwards. Picking meat from the bones, savouring its warm buttery texture, Crowley can remember feeling very content. He can remember the warmth of sun and salt on his skin, the warm weight of a meal and wine in his belly. He can remember the heat of the fire, keeping the chill at bay as the night began to fall.

They had been naked that day, the demon thinks, eyes flashing over the angel. Hadn’t been a thing, then. He wonders what makes it a thing, now.

“How goes all the good work?” He grumbles at his counterpart, stretching bare feet out, towards the fire.

The angel’s little clay stove is another blatant use of magic. By Earthly laws, it should be far too hot to be in such close approximation with the tent walls. Smoke should be filing the air, but it’s not. Instead, it curls obediently up and out of a small flap in the top corner of the tent. And they are warm, because of it.

Crowley wiggles his toes, feeling sensation return, bit by bit.

Beside him, Aziraphale launches into a diatribe about his latest assignment. He’s been working with a travelling band of stonemasons. He had been travelling with them up until yesterday, he says, with a heavy sigh. Only, he received word that he needed to return to King Arthur’s court and perform a few blessings and a minor revelation. It’s really going to curtail his efforts to observe a new construction technique, down on the coast.

“Well…”

Crowley pulls a bit of a face. He knows there’s an opportunity here, if he’s clever about it. They’ve been toying with this idea of helping one another out, now and again. The demon has always thought it was rather a good idea. Saves both of them a lot of time - and it will lead them both into more frequent contact.

The demon is not too proud to admit that he’d like that. Though the world is getting more and more crowded, it is also somehow becoming more lonely. Gone are the days when Crowley happily spent months and years in solitude. He craves different things, nowadays. He misses the angel, sometimes, when they are apart for too long. It is nice having a friend, nice having someone he can rely on, to be there. Someone like him. Someone who understands the weight of time and all they’ve seen and done.

He’s not sure when he started thinking of Aziraphale as a friend. Possibly only in the last few hundred years. He knows, deep down, that it is not strictly true - they are existential enemies, they have to be, there are sides and one day there will be a war, and it’s a whole thing - but he cannot help himself. The world is big and lonely and he feels very separate from it, sometimes. Aziraphale is the only thing that is warm and familiar. So, he seeks the angel out.

Sometimes, it’s a bit more that that, too. Sometimes, he seeks just because he wants to seek - not just because he’s lonely. Sometimes, he’s having a perfectly good evening somewhere, in perfectly good company, drinking a perfectly good wine, by a perfectly good fire, and he realises it would be nicer if Aziraphale was there, too. Sometimes, it happens when he’s having a perfectly good fuck, and he’s not entirely sure what that means. Maybe nothing. Maybe something. He’s pushed it aside, for the moment, to analyse if it becomes a regular occurrence.

“I’m actually heading towards Camelot,” he tells the angel, in the same gentle tone he had started the sentence with. Almost casual. Almost disinterested. Careful not to be too fast. “If you really didn’t want to head back that way, you could always give me notes on what you need to get done. I don’t mind lending a hand, now and again.”

He lets his eyes slide over to meet Aziraphale’s. The angel can often be moved with eye contact. Crowley isn’t sure if he is afraid of the monstrous yellow or pities him for it. Either way, he’ll often look quickly away when the demon fixes him in a stare.

“Honestly, it’s no trouble,” he tells the angel, applying gentle pressure.

Aziraphale looks away, lips forming a tight line. He’s frowning, slightly. His hands are clutched around a wine skin and a cup. He looks as if he were about to offer Crowley a drink but has just changed his mind.

The demon holds his breath, waiting.

“Well… I suppose it’s only a minor blessing,” the angel murmurs, eventually, letting his shoulders relax.

A little twist pulls at the inside of Crowley’s belly.

He’s not sure what it is - pleasure, or pride, or fear. Perhaps its a little of everything. He is proud of Aziraphale for stepping a little outside the bounds that Heaven inflicts on his existence. The angel can be a silly, fussy prat sometimes, but he is also clever and brave, and he deserves better than how his masters treat him. Crowley would love nothing more than to see him give the lot of them a big kick up the backside. Or maybe a good thrashing, while they were down here, in their mortal forms. (He could do that, Crowley knew. Aziraphale was the guardian of the gates of Eden, after all. He was strong enough to destroy almost any of his colleagues, in one-on-one combat. Not that he ever would).

What Crowley would not like to see, however, was what came next. He hates the idea of the angel being pushed from the nest, of being turned out in the cold, away from the warm power of Heaven - of which Crowley and other demons’ power is just a pale shadow. He does not want to see Aziraphale stained or burned, broken or exiled.

The demon’s own fall from Grace was so long ago now that the memories were no longer physically painful. But they weigh heavy on his soul. The separation still cuts like a knife, even now, millennia later. He does not wish that on the angel, even for a second, even though it would mark them as equals - even if it would mean that Aziraphale could be his friend in reality, rather than just inside his own mind.

“Don’t give me anything important,” the demon continues, as if there is no conflict in his chest, as though this is all that it started out - a way of working a little less hard and still cancelling one another out. “I can’t do anything really holy, but if it’s just some silly human miracle… a bit of circumstance tweaking…” he shrugs. “I’m happy to lend a hand.”

Across the warm air of the tent, Aziraphale considers him, carefully.

“Yes,” he says, eventually. “I know you are.”

There is an edge to his words. Crowley can tell there is extensive internal dialogue happening inside the angel’s mind, same as his. He wonders if he can guess what Aziraphale is worried about most.

“It’s not a temptation,” he murmurs. (And it’s not. Perhaps it was, at the beginning, just a little. He’d wanted to lighten his own load and he hadn’t minded so much how he’d gone about that. But now it’s much more about keeping the two of them in proximity than anything else). Aziraphale continues to watch him, anxiously. “Come on,” Crowley presses, softly. “It’s not. Would I lie?”

“You’re a demon… demon’s lie.”

“But would I lie to you?”

A pause.

The angel’s forehead smooths, slightly. “No… no, I don’t think you would.”

“Good.” Crowley watches him. “Because I don’t.”

He does not know if Aziraphale believes him, but it is true. He does not lie to the angel. It has never seemed right to do so. They are both here for a purpose - that, they can’t help - but their work does not have to come at the expense of one another.

Crowley knows it is foolish, but he has long considered them to be together in something, rather than apart. He knows there are sides. He knows there are divisions that can never be bridged and that, one day, after Earth, they will stand on different sides of a battleground, but - for the moment- they are both here, both living on this earth among these strange humans, more alike than they are different.

They’re a funny thing, he thinks, watching the hazel flecks in Aziraphale’s eyes catch the firelight. More alike than different. More together than apart. It feels, sometimes, like they’re two parts of something. Like they’re supposed to fit in some way he hasn’t quite figured out.

“Your tunic is probably ready, now,” the angel says, softly.

The demon realises he’s been staring a little. He turns his face towards the fire.

“Right. Thanks.”

Standing, he drops the blanket from his shoulders and reaches out, running fingers over his tunic. It is warm and dry. There is the tiniest hint of magic imbued in its fibres, now. (Later, he will find that it holds its warmth a little longer than most clothes, that it will stay a bit drier). He picks it up -knowing that he should fear placing Aziraphale’s magic so close to his skin, but not fearing at all. Deep down, he believes that their opposition is not meant to force them apart. It’s meant to balance.

Unhooking the belt around his waist, he tugs at the wrapped cotton cloth he wears there, humanity’s latest incarnation of undergarments. The belt falls to the floor, then the cotton, and his skin is warmed by the fire.

Crowley knows what he looks like, underneath his clothes. He knows that he is long and lean, and the bones of his body jut out to far, under the surface. He knows that his skin, itself, is too pale. He knows that one can see the veins running beneath it, in the firelight - thin, blue rivers of blood. He knows that his eyes are too vivid, that his hair is too bright. He knows that he falls within a physical spectrum of humanity but there’s still something else about him - something other, not-quite-there, not-quite-enough to be human. He’s never been shy about it, before. His body is just a physical expression of him. Why would he feel self conscious?

He feels a little self conscious now, though. He feels a little prickling of his skin, despite the warmth of the fire against the sweep of his thigh. He feels his muscles tense slightly, the hairs of his legs raise on end. Water is evaporating from the crease of his hip. He can feel it leave him cooler. He can feel the skin warm elsewhere. Glancing down, he can see the red hair down the centre of him, around the sex of him, catching the firelight, glowing almost gold. He is made of fire, he thinks dimly, the same way that Aziraphale is made of starlight. They are both burning.

They’re burning a little differently than they used to, he thinks, as he runs a hand down the outside of his flank, rubbing the last of the dampness away from his skin, feeling it evaporate in the fire’s heat. There is something different to this moment than the moments they have been exposed to one another, before. This is not like when they have changed clothes, or visited a roman bath, or the times they have swum in a lake or a sea, or sat on a beach afterwards, drying in the sun. This feels strangely more exposed, strangely more private. There is a weight to the way that Aziraphale’s eyes travel once over him, then slide off to focus on the golden light of the stove. There is a shift, in the air, as his heart beats faster.

The demon chances a glance around at his friend, finding that spot in the crook of his neck where the blood runs just below the surface, tapping away against the skin. Faster. Faster. A physical response to thought. To want. 

So that’s what this is, Crowley thinks, as he pulls the tunic over his head. That’s why they’re not naked around one another anymore.

 _Fuck_.

As the tunic falls to mid thigh, he feels a little less exposed.

“So, you going to tell me what you need me to do, at court?” He asks, and is glad to hear that his voice sounds almost normal, despite the rapid thrilling of his heart.

Aziraphale’s is slightly tight, when he replies.

“Yes, of course. Um…”

The angel looks around, distractedly, eyes flickering over to Crowley once or twice. The demon feels them trace over his thigh, over the open neck of his shirt, over his forearm, between their movements around the tent. Eventually, the angel seems to remember what he was looking for and stands, shuffling over to a small wooden trunk. After rooting around inside it for a time, he withdraws a small missive, with a few instructions noted on it, and reads them out.

The demon sits back down on front of the fire, tucking the tunic into his lap, and listens in a slightly distracted manner.

They discuss the matter of Aziraphale’s tasks, in court, and the angel gives him some suggestions as to how they should be carried out. Then conversation moves to long term plans - whether they should agree to meet up afterwards, to see if everything has gone to plan. They both agree that is a good idea, as it’s their first job on on another’s behalf.

First implies that there will be more times, thinks the demon, watching his counterpart slowly relax in the firelight. First implies that there will be more nights, spent in tents and houses, sitting beside Aziraphale, watching the way he moves his hands as he speaks, and the little quirks of his eyebrows, and the soft curve of his pink mouth. The demon has never really imagined that mouth doing anything other than speaking and eating, before, but he does from that night onwards.

Hours later, after a skin of wine between them and a meal for the angel, Crowley declines an offer to stay the night, wraps himself back up in his warm dry clothes, and prepares to head back out into the storm. It’s cold and wet outside, and he’d really rather stay, but there is a lot of brand-new desire brewing inside of him and, for possibly the first time in his existence, the demon decides to do the right thing.

He bids Aziraphale goodnight at the door, with a gentle grip on his arm. Then, as the angel looks disappointed;

“I’ll see you soon, then?”

“Yes.”

That seems to brighten Aziraphale. His eyes catch the light of the sky outside for a moment, silver and blue. 

“Night, angel.”

“Goodnight, Crowley.”

.


	4. Antioch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating change due to our two getting a bit hands-on, near the end of the chapter. If you're not into that sort of thing, probably best to skip this one.

_1097_

The city is under siege and the angel is in the infirmary, surrounded by blood and gore and the smell of death. The people of Antioch are beginning to starve. The crusaders, outside the gates, are beginning to starve. They speak different languages. They worship different gods (small g) but their bodies begin to fail in the same ways, after too long without food and water.

Aziraphale does his best by them. It’s always the children who suffer the most. He has lost count of the fathers and mothers, the sisters and cousins, who have carried their children to him, in hope of a miracle. He cannot save them all. He has already developed a reputation as a doctor, he cannot develop one as a miracle worker. Heaven will notice. Heaven will come. 

They should come, he thinks, at the back of his mind. They should see what they are driving humanity to, in the name of God. But it's just another siege, just another war, just another set of people dying. Deep down, Aziraphale knows that Heaven would not lift a finger even if Gabriel or Micheal were placed down right in the middle of it, to smell the scent of rotting flesh with their own mortal noses. They do not understand humanity. They have never taken the time to learn. 

Washing his hands, the angel moves from one patient to the next, changing bandages, wiping the forehead of a mother who will leave four children to the world alone, when she passes the following morning. Aziraphale can feel her soul beginning to leave her body. He whispers a few words to dull her pain, to give her strength, but he cannot offer anymore. The most frustrating thing about this world is knowing his limits. 

He is on the last bed of the row - more of a makeshift cot on the floor, a pile of rags and sickness - when he hears the demon’s voice. 

“Angel?” 

A little joy shoots through him. 

“Crowley?” He turns. 

Crowley, dressed in the current fashion for a local woman, has appeared at his elbow, holding out a fresh bowl of water and some bandages.

“Hey, angel. Need a hand for an hour? I was passing through.” A complicated head wrap obscures everything of the demon but the golden eyes, but it’s definitely his opposite number. Head tilted to the side, question in the tilt of a brow. 

The relief that flows through Aziraphale, to see the demon, is wonderful. It is warm, comforting, total delight. His friend is here; his counterbalance, the one thing in the world that stays the same against the relentless draw of time. Crowley is here. And, between them, they should be able to do anything. 

“Yes. Absolutely! Thank you.” 

He takes the bowl, throwing demon a smile. 

Crowley’s golden eyes absorb it, gratefully.

“Are you to be one of my nurses then?” The angel asks, nodding towards the female attire. “Are you familiar with the local customs? Only married women work in the hospital.”

The demon shrugs. 

“Then that is how they shall see me.”

You can be anything, the angel marvels, eyes following the slender line of the demon’s wrists, as Crowley tucks a strand of fire-red hair back beneath the head covering. The angel’s own powers do not extend to such shape-shifting. He can perform a glamour, he can alter what he has, but he cannot twist perception, space and time, like Crowley does. His talents lie in healing and miracles. Together, he thinks, they could end this siege today. They could bring peace. They could convince the humans to rest, to grow, to create - even if only for a short time. 

What would Heaven say, he wonders, if they did just that. If Micheal or Gabriel arrived on Earth and found some little corner of it turned to paradise, by the pair of them. What punishment would they suffer, for such vanity, for such treason?

“When did you arrive into town?” He asks Crowley as they two of them move off along the rows of the sick and dying, the demon flinching at the smell of a rotten leg. “I haven’t sensed you around.”

“Only this morning. I had some business to attend to, in the north, so I was on the road. I knew you were here, and I knew there was a siege, and that it was Christmastime…” the demon shrugs. “Thought you might need to perform some miracles for the Christian soldiers outside. Seemed like something your lot would want. And I knew you wouldn’t want to leave the hospital…”

Aziraphale can always be found in the same place, in times of war. The hospital. Crowley knows it. Knows him. Knows that he will have let his angelic duties fall a little by the wayside in order to complete his human tasks. 

It feels _so_ nice, to be known. 

“I have a few things I need deal with, in the camp,” the angel admits, “but I’ve been unable to get anyone to watch the littlest ones while I’m away.” Motioning for the demon to follow, he leads the way through to a small room at the back of the building. The room holds three baskets, three tiny children sleeping within. “There have been few fresh provisions in, since October, so the poor are beginning to go hungry. We’ve had a fever and a coughing sickness,” the angel sighs, looking down at the children in their baskets. “Some of those who died had nobody left behind to take their children.” 

“So you took them in.”

“Yes.”

Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s eyes like a golden weight, on the back of his neck. He is not sure if his counterpart is about to mock him, or pity him, or some combination of both. He would have been willing to bet on what the demon would say next - that the children would die, with or without their help, that some things are fated, and they cannot save them all - that one life should not matter, above any other. Crowleys surprises him, however. 

Moving past him, into the room, the demon walks over to the nearest basket and kneels. 

“They’re young, angel.”

“Only ten weeks old, that one,” Aziraphale sighs. “The other two are a little older, about four and six months. They’re faring a little better, but this chap has me worried.” 

Crowley extends one long index finger into the basket, under the blankets, and into the palm of the infant’s hand. Tiny fingertips wrap around it. 

The angel feels the moment tug at the centre of him. There is something very human, very intimate, about holding hands. It is almost like an offering. 

_Here, take this part of me that can love, that can kill._

Standing in the doorway, Aziraphale can remember all the times he has held Crowley’s hand, throughout history. As the demon slept, in Nazareth; while pulling him up onto a horse, in Rome; while handing over a segment of an orange, in Spain; at an inn, in Turkey; as comfort, during a sea crossing; in a house, under a tree, in a field, on a hill, in a storm, in the sunshine, in the snow. Again. Again. Again. Again. A thing they repeat, throughout time. A little offering of one, to the other. 

He remembers a night in Londinium, too, several dozen Christmases ago, now, where they’d gone a little further than hand holding. They’d offered a little more. He remembers a little booth at the back of an inn. Snow falling thickly outside. The air bitterly cold and them sitting a little too close, because of it, laughing at some shared joke, their bellies warm with wine. He remembers dark wood and low light. One candle, guttering on the table and his friend’s fingers sliding into the hollow of his wrist. And more laughter. And hearts beating almost too fast. And the demon running one finger over the rise of his thumb. Around and around. Warm finger pad on hard bone. Just touching. 

They do that, sometimes - touch too much. They’re not sure why. They try not to think about it. Try and name it ‘want’, when what it really is, is ‘need'.

“I can stay with them, if you like,” the demon murmurs, still kneeling on the floor. Aziraphale pulls his thoughts back to the present. It does nothing to lessen the warmth in his belly. “Or, I can go to the camp, if it’s easier. I think I can handle a few small miracles, tonight. It’s up to you, though… What do you want me?” Hand still in the basket, finger still clutched in the child’s hand, Crowley looks up at him. Eyes wide, and gold, and honest. 

_You do more for my soul than any faith I’ve ever known_ , the angel thinks, meeting them. 

“Stay here, if you would,” he tells his counterpart. “I will go to the camp. One of the miracles needed is fairly powerful,” he explains. “It will leave a mark - and I would rather it be of magic, should anyone take note of it, in the future. It will be safer, for both of us.”

Crowley dips a scarf-wrapped head, in agreement. A tiny tendril of red hair falls loose. 

Aziraphale feels the urge to reach out and touch it. 

“I won’t be long,” he tells the demon. “Do you need anything, before I go?”

“Nah.” The demon looks down at the sleeping infant, then over at the other two. “We’ll be fine. Go do your thing, angel.”

.

Aziraphale does. 

Taking nothing with him, he heads out into the dark. The night is windy, cold, just a few days past midwinter. It is the first of the twelve nights, leading to Epiphany. The day has only just become a mainstream celebration - due, in most part, to the rising power of the catholic church. The soldiers outside the city walls will have just been fasting for the month of advent, the angel thinks. They will have marched here on empty stomachs. They will be almost as hungry as the poor citizens they lay siege to, inside the city. He doubts either condition is what the Christian prophet would have wanted. He doubts it is what the Muslim prophet would have wanted, either. 

Wrapped in his pale cloak, Aziraphale slides through the shadows like a ghost - moving past sentries whose eyes are only for the enemy. His powers shield him from men with spears and arrows, swords and shields. The only humans who can see him are those in need. 

The ones that make eye contact, he greets with a smile, a little burst of magic that gives them relief, familiarity, a deep sense of peace and calm. The ones that look longer, with need, he pauses, to grasp a hand - or touch an old injury, easing the pain. Some of them reach out to him even as they sleep. As he walks through the camp, he runs a hand more than once over the roof of a tent, easing the nightmares, giving them dreams of what they love most, granting momentary escape. By the time he reaches the human he has been sent to compel to piety, he finds that he already knows exactly what to do.

The young man is sitting praying on a rug near the door. He does not know it, but his posture is almost identical to that of the young men on the other side of the city walls, praying to their own god; their hearts just as poignant, their words just as unanswered. 

Human gods are as real as they make them - all shadows of Her true face. Tonight, Aziraphale brings this man’s god to life. 

As the young soldier tilts his head back, a little rising wave of hopelessness in his eyes, the angel reaches out and lays a hand on his shoulder. For the briefest of moments, he lets the surety of Heaven run through the man - barely more than a boy, too young to be here, too unsure, to naive. He lets the belief that used to make him so certain course through this young human’s veins and, as the boy takes in a shuddering breath, he whispers for him not to be afraid.

“When the time comes, you will know what is right,” he tells him. 

Nine times out of ten, that is all a person needs to know.

He leaves the tent as the man lifts his hands to his face and cries. They are tears of hope, not of desolation and the angel feels very slightly warmed by them. There is nothing purer than hope. Nothing more wonderful. It is what drives humanity to all the beauty and horror that it is capable of. It is what drives creation; why they tell stories, why they raise temples and children. Hope is an investment in the future.

.

The walk back to the hospital is more peaceful than the walk out. The wind has calmed, slightly, and the sky cleared, and flakes of snow are falling lazily past the glow of the wall guard’s lamps. The frost should crunch underfoot, but it does not. Aziraphale passes too lightly across it - past the dozing sentries, past the soldier’s campfires and the brazier burning just inside the city gates. 

Turning towards the north of the city, and the makeshift hospital, the angel wraps his cloak tightly around him and remembers the first Christmas - not Christmas, then, just the day of Roman midwinter. It had been cold then, too. Crowley had nearly frozen his wings off, sitting out to watch the star shine, over the stable. His friend had fallen asleep against him for the first time, that night. And Aziraphale had been honoured, by his trust. Over the years, since, they have shared only a handful of Christmases together, but Crowley has fallen asleep against him more times than he accurately remembers. They had been friendly colleagues, that night, in Bethlehem. They are something quite different, now.

Arriving back at the doors of the hospital, Aziraphale begins to climb the stairs, wearily. His Heavenly remit fulfilled, a large part of him wants to turn and leave this place. Leave the city. Head south. Find somewhere warmer. Leave the death and starvation, leave the war and greed, and find some place by an ocean where he can just sit and read for a while. Feel the turn of the Earth. Maybe have a rest. If Crowley had not been waiting upstairs, he is not sure that duty would have been enough to draw him back - but the demon is there, waiting in the little back room, the three baskets pulled close on the floor. 

The children are quiet. The first two are asleep. The third lies in Crowley’s arms, one of the demon’s fingers in its tiny mouth. Aziraphale hovers in the doorway for a moment, watching his counterpart - his hereditary enemy, the great serpent of Eden, the bringer of Evil to Earth - remove the finger, dip it in a small bowl of milk, then gently offer it to the child again, letting him suck sustenance from skin. 

“You’ll need to find them mothers, angel,” Crowley murmurs, without looking up. The demon was always able to tell it was him. Knew his magic. Knew the sound of his steps. “Goats milk is not rich enough to sustain them for long. They’ll need something more human, soon.” Removing the finger, Crowley dips it in milk, and offers it to the baby again. “I’d suckle them myself, but I’m not sure you’d approve of the amount of soul debt that comes with a demon’s milk.” 

Aziraphale is not sure whether or not Crowley is joking. 

The demon has always shifted easily between bodies, but there had never been mention of an ability to bear or feed young, before. It makes sense, though, in theory. Other demons are able to sire children on human mothers, and there is nothing inherently different about a human carrying demon seed and a demon carrying that of a human. It makes sense that Crowley’s body is capable of such things. 

Loitering in the doorway, the angel spends a long few seconds wondering how he would feel, to watch his friend carry life into this world. He decides that he likes the idea far too much. 

“How are they?” He asks, nodding towards the children. 

“The older two are fine,” the demon offers the smallest child another finger of milk. “This one is weakening.”

He will not last until morning, Aziraphale thinks, reaching out to the tiny child with his powers. The angel can always feel when a soul is starting to peel away from a body. It is a strange thing, like seeing paint pull away from wood, cracks appearing, edges not quite meeting up.

He mourns for the child, dying slowly in Crowley’s arms, not quite strong enough to feed and keep breathing at the same time. He wishes he were able to feed the child himself, but a miracle would draw attention and the ability to shift bodies without a miracle is beyond Aziraphale. His corporation was provided as a vessel, not as a tool to do his work - because his work is that of the soul, while Crowley's is of the flesh. It is ironic, really, that only something created to tempt humanity could save a human life. 

“If you fed him, would he live?” He asks the demon, softly. 

His counterpart looks up, eyes piercing. 

“Are you asking me to feed him?”

“Would he live?” Aziraphale asks again.

“He would live,” Crowley nods, “but you should know what that means, angel…” The demon’s voice is suddenly harsher than before - sharper, almost accusing. “His soul will be forever indebted to mine. He will feel my power more potently than had I ever cursed him. He will feel a pull towards evil, all his life, and he _will_ act on it. They always act on it - all the creatures who sell me bits of their soul.”

The tiny thing in the demon’s arms loses its hold on the end of a finger, loses its supply of milk. It splutters, coughs, then begins to cry. 

It is a desperate noise. 

Aziraphale remembers that night, again - that night more than a thousand years ago, where the two of them sat under a pine tree, in a land not so very far from where they are, now - the cry of the human’s prophesied messiah, breaking through the cold air. Then, the softening of the sound, as his mother took him in her arms. 

Whatever chaos came from Crowley’s soul, whatever debt this child’s life would endow, surely it was worth it, to soften that desperate noise, the angel thinks. There is nothing certain, in this world. Every child born to Earth has the potential to act on evil. Every child has the potential to act on good. Aziraphale has seen all all of the greatness and horror that humanity had to offer. None of Crowley’s chaos has ever come close. 

“I think there are worse debts to carry,” he whispers, to the serpent demon. 

Crowley watches him as though this praise was beyond anything - watches him for a solid ten seconds. Then, raises a hand to tug the headscarf free. 

Perhaps he should be calling Crowley ‘her’, the angel thinks, as the demon unpicks the fabric, exposing his face and letting long waves of hair fall out. The shift in form is definitely intentional. The change in styling and role is intentional. The overall effect is more androgynous than feminine, but it is a change. At the same time, the angel thinks, Crowley has not specifically mentioned anything and he does not want to assume. If it matters, he decides, the demon will say something. He always has in the past. (And what do words matter, after all, to creatures like them. A single word could never explain what one person truly was - all of that complexity. Not a demon. Not an angel. Not a human, either, the angel thinks...) 

He watches with gentle fascination as Crowley moves the scarf to one side, slipping one hand to the side of the dark robe and pushing it it free to reveal a swathe of pale shoulder and sharp collarbone. The demon is still thin, despite the shift of form - same as he had been last time Aziraphale had last seen him naked, in a tent, in Wessex - back when he had been appearing decidedly masculine, with stubble darkening the underside of his jaw and his hair tangled in knots. 

He is beautiful both ways, Aziraphale decides. This form is new, but somehow still familiar. The pale skin is the same. The golden eyes are the same. The copper hair is the same, too, though much better groomed, than it had been in Wessex. It falls in soft curls past Crowley's shoulders. Aziraphale finds himself watching a little too closely as the demon pushes his robes to one side, revealing the soft rise of a breast and dark nipple. 

"Oh." Catching himself, he looks hurriedly away.  “I’ll, um, give you a moment, shall I?” he blusters, but Crowley just looks up, pulling a face. 

“Don’t be a prat, Aziraphale. You’ve seen my nipples before,” the demon looks back down, grumbling under his breath. “There’s no need to get weird about them just because they’re finally doing something useful.”

“I’m not being weird.”

“Yes, you are. You’re being really weird.” 

There is a long silence. 

In an effort to prove that he isn’t being weird, Aziraphale doesn’t leave, but he doesn’t exactly look back around, either. He settles for staring out into the middle distance, in the direction of the opposite wall. 

Crowley shifts, cradling the child at a different angle. 

“Fuck - this is harder than I remember...”

“You’ve done this before?” 

“Just the once.” The demon winces. “It takes a good bit of magic to get the milk to come in, but that’s just hormone work, really. Not too tricky. The actual feeding is the difficult part. You have to get them to… Ow! You little shit!” 

Aziraphale glances over. 

“Perhaps you should tilt his head back?” 

“Oh, you want to give me advice, now? Aziraphale, patron saint of breastfeeding?” 

“No.” 

“Right, then. Shut up.” 

Pursing his lips, the angel walks over to sit against the wall, a few feet further down than the demon, and crosses his legs in front of him. Turning his attention to each of the other two babies, he tries to ignore the little noises of impatience his counterpart is making, but he cannot help himself but glance up when he gives a triumphant little hiss. 

“Ah - got it!”

The child is nestled tight against pale skin, the golden colour of his cheeks a stark contrast to Crowley’s red and white. A tiny nose is pressed into the flesh of a breast, tiny jaw working. The soft sound of swallowing fills the air. There is magic in this, Aziraphale thinks, watching the babe - magic of different types. It is magic that allows Crowley to be like this - an immortal creature wrapped up in a changeable human form. It is magic that brings milk to the flesh that the demon has shifted into. It is magic of a different sort that milk is enough to sustain a human life. And magic of an ineffable sort that this child has clung on to his own life for so long, without it, already. 

The child is snuffling slightly, due to the infection in his lungs. Watching him try and feed, the angel feels the least he can do is clear his nasal passages, so he does. It is just a tiny spell, but enough for Crowley to notice. 

He lifts long, dark pupils, fixing him with a judgemental stare. 

“Careful, angel. If this is going to be a group project, we’re going to have to find a _very_ safe place to stash him, afterwards. I don’t fancy the chances of any kid bumping into one of your lot, reeking of both of our magic. People might get the wrong impression.”

Aziraphale’s face flushes pink - but Crowley probably meant for that. It was a comment designed to get a response. A little taunt. An almost-tease. 

“We can send him south, after the siege,” he blusters, at the demon. “I’ll find someone who might take him, tomorrow.” 

A few seconds pass. 

Crowley continues to watch him with a strange expression - something that might be fondness, or might be something far more dangerous. Aziraphale is not sure. Their eyes hold for ten seconds, each of them passing slower than the beating of the angel’s heart, then Crowley’s gaze drops back down to his charge. 

“Worry about finding someone to feed the other two, tomorrow,” he murmurs, stroking dark hair away from the child’s ear with one long finger. “This one can wait. I can afford to be in town for a few more days.”

“Oh… thank you.”

“I’ll need somewhere to stay, though.”

“You can stay with me.”

The words leave his lips slightly too quickly. 

The corner of Crowley’s mouth twitches - a hint of a smile, even though his eyes look almost sad.

“Sounds good, angel.” 

.

The next seven days are, by some margin, the strangest of the angel’s life on Earth thus far. 

After handing over his patients to his replacement for the night, he and Crowley head back to the rooms that he keeps, down beside the southern city wall. It is a poor district, but far enough from the hospital that the angel feels able to escape the smell of death. And it’s quiet. And nobody pays too much attention to a doctor sneaking a single woman with a child into his rooms, in the dead of night. 

The family in the rooms below him seem to accept the story of Crowley being his cousin’s wife, recently widowed. (It helps that the two of them act like family, after knowing one another for so long). The mother even offers them some bread and sympathy, and coos over the baby. 

It is a rare experience, to see the demon interacting with humans, to see the face that he pulls down over the truth of himself. And, if Crowley stretches their welcome a little, tempting the neighbour’s youngest child to steal a toy from the elder one, then it's only a tiny infraction. And, if Aziraphale enjoys holding the baby while the demon accepts a small gift of scented oil, for his hair, then it is just because he is an angel and he’s always liked children. 

It is not because he’s enjoying the pretence, he tells himself, firmly. It is not that he is enjoying what it feels like, to bid goodnight to his neighbours and lead his pretend family up the narrow stairs to the room at the top of the little building. It is not that he enjoys fussing over the demon, making tea and gathering blankets as Crowley removes his headscarf and wanders the room, taking in the view, from the windows. It is not that Aziraphale enjoys glancing over, to ask his opposite number if he wants anything to eat, and finding him silhouetted beautifully against the night sky of the city - the back of one slender shoulder on show as he holds the child against himself. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” he snips, the first time he catches Aziraphale watching. 

“Like what?” 

“Like I’m being…” he screws up his face. “I dunno… nice.” 

“But it is,” the angel murmurs, carrying him over a tea and a blanket. Sitting on the narrow straw pallet in the corner of the room. The only place to rest amongst the small piles of scrolls and medical equipment, and books, and bandages. “What you’re doing for him, it’s-,” 

“It’s not nice,” the demon hisses, “and I’m not doing it for him. His soul will belong to my master in a matter of years. Mark my words.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“I do, angel.” 

Aziraphale thought on this for a while. 

“And what about all the lives that his touches? What if good comes of them?”

“Well, I guess that means I’ve fucked up…” 

Crowley looks tired, done, a little afraid. 

Aziraphale wonders if he is regretting the offer to sustain the little life that lies in his arms. There is a crease all the way up his forehead as he walks over and sets the baby down in the basket, then moves to curl his atop Aziraphale’s straw bed, pulling the blanket up around his shoulders. 

“Listen, your magic will get him through the night. We can find someone else to feed him, tomorrow,” the angel tells him, softly. “I know this is a lot to ask.” 

Wide golden eyes find his in the semi-darkness of the room, the anxiety in them softening. 

“Nah… I’m already here, aren't I? The damage is done. Might as well hang around a few days. Make sure he pulls through.” 

So he does. 

Crowley sleeps curled up on the bed in the corner of Aziraphale’s room and the child sleeps in the basket, beside him. He drinks when the angel brings him tea, and he eats - which is unusual, for the demon, but he finds that his body needs it, to feed the child. He complains constantly about how boring it all is, how pointless it is to save a single human life, but, whenever the angel catches him unawares, Aziraphale finds his counterpart wearing an expression that could easily be mistaken for contentment. 

Curled in his bed, or sprawled across the long chaise by the window, or on the floor in a nest of pillows, Crowley could not look more as if he belongs in the angel's rooms - in his life. And, if Aziraphale ends up spending a little less time at the hospital because the demon is there, well... it is only to keep an eye on his smallest patient. And if he laughs more than he usually does, then it is only because Crowley is quick witted and full of stories. And if they sit up and talk with together for hours, every night, then it’s only because they’ve a lot to catch up on. And if he allows the demon to talk him into sharing the narrow bed, on the last night of his stay, then it is only because he _is_ a bit tired. And, if they wrap their fingers together in the dark and Crowley presses his face into Aziraphale's neck, then it is only because the demon is cold. 

It is midwinter. And it is cold. And the world is so big. And it feels, sometimes, like they are the only things that are keeping one another sane in it. So, they end up pressed against one another in the angel's narrow bed, touching a bit more than they should. And Aziraphale lets Crowley slip a hand around his side, rubbing slow circles against his skin with the pad of one thumb. And they talk a bit more. And they touch a bit more. And it just feels right to lean in and brush their mouths together. And that brush slips into one kiss. And that one kiss slips into another, and then another - and suddenly they are kissing desperately, their mouths warm and very wet against one another’s and the demon’s hand is sliding down from his hip, pushing roughly under his belt, and long fingers are wrapping around his cock, squeezing him gently into a warm palm, stroking him upwards. 

Mortal bodies cannot hold up to the sort of want that grows over centuries. He comes after just a dozen strokes, with a whimper and a shuddering gasp against Crowley's cheek. And the demon rests a wet mouth against his forehead, pressing the occasional kiss, until his heart rate returns to normal. 

They lie for a long few minutes in the dark, afterwards, before Aziraphale works up the courage to speak. When he finally manages, however, Crowley just hushes him. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he whispers. Then, when Aziraphale tries again, “Honestly, angel it’s okay. We’re fine. Just leave it, yeah?” 

“Okay.” 

The fingers still tangled in Aziraphale’s give a gentle squeeze. Then, the hand slips free from his own at the same time as the other is withdrawn from his breeches. Wiping the latter clean against his side, Crowley rolls over and stares up at the ceiling. Lying beside him, Aziraphale can just about make out the familiar profile of a long nose, slightly parted lips, and a furrowed brow. 

It is a strange little moment. 

Aziraphale tends towards over-analysis, when dealing with social situations. He likes to talk things through until his mind is empty and he can relax again. But there is no option to do so, tonight. Crowley has absolutely no intention of clarifying exactly what just passed between them and while the demon makes no move to leave, he also does not reinstate contact, or ask for anything in return. They just continue to lie a few inches away from one another, Crowley staring at the ceiling and Aziraphale staring at Crowley, until a bell tolls midnight in a distant watchtower. Then, eventually, the angel decides it is time to sleep. 

“We should really get some rest,” he says softly, performing a small miracle to clean himself up and nuzzling deeper into his pillow.

Beside him, he hears the soft rasp of the demon’s cheek against cotton. He feels the weight of those golden eyes watching him, through the night. 

“Suppose we should.”

“Goodnight, Crowley,” the angel whispers, into the cold night air. 

There is a little pause, then the softest of sighs. And a tiny; 

“Night, angel.” 

.


	5. Stirling

_1328_

The castle is draughty. Seated in a niche, halfway up the eastern stairwell of the great hall, the demon stares out into a gathering snowstorm, braced against the wind.

There is celebration going on, downstairs. A lord is in town. He is to be married to a lady. A King is making progress and will be here, soon, to receive homage from his people. There are families gathering for the first time in years, soldiers excited to see the man who has liberated their country from the clutches of the English. There is noise and laughter and the hall is strewn with straw to make it warmer. The masses are packed in along long bench tables, talking and drinking. Wrapped in silks and finery, they are feasting to celebrate the anniversary of the Christian prophet's birth. Crowley spotted wild boar on a spit, before selecting a bottle of wine and retreating to the stairwell. 

The niche suits the demon better than the party. From halfway up, he has a fine view over the battery walls, out to where the cliffs drop away into the land below. He can see a distant river, the tiny dots of light around the edges of it that must be houses. There is a watchtower in the distance, too, its pale stone emerging proudly from the dark skeletons of trees. A small golden light marks the watchman’s tower, half way up. A tiny pinprick of life in the gathering dark. 

It is only half past three, but the night is pulling in around them. A snowstorm is predicted, gathering over the midlands in the distance. He can see the crumbled hills glowing a strange gold against their ominous black. They are already dusted with frost. 

Almost as if his thoughts draw the snow into life, a few flakes float past the window. Thin, sparkling flakes, dancing in an unseen wind. The thick castle wall protects Crowley from the gusts of wind, but he can see them tugging at the banners, up on the battlements. If he looks directly down from his window, he can see the wind batter the braziers of the guardsmen, too. Flames dipping and swelling on the influx of air. 

The soldiers around the fire are wrapped up tight against the cold, cups of warmed wine clutched in their gloved hands. Hats are pulled down low, over their heads. Their boots and cloaks are padded with wool, to keep them warm. The look merry, though, despite the weather. Humans are always merry in times of celebration - no matter how cold and hopelessness the year ahead. They are fine so long as they are together, Crowley thinks. 

The demon has an opportunity not to be alone, tonight. There is a young man in the house guard who has his own room, up in the eaves of the King’s own building. He has a warm bed and warm hands and a warm mouth, and he’ll hold the demon afterwards, if Crowley asks him to. Against his back, the guardsman could feel like just about anybody, and the demon is considering the offer of company he made, earlier that afternoon. It is a distraction, a momentary pleasure, but that’s the sort of thing demons are supposed to be about, isn’t it? It’s exactly the sort of thing that should consume a demon’s mind. 

He turns his head. Looks down towards the end of the castle grounds. 

There is a sound of singing coming from the chapel, tucked away behind the great hall. He can hear it drifting up, on the wind. There is to be another mass later, when the King arrives, and the boys are practicing for their performance. The sight of them walking across, earlier, wrapped in matching pale cloaks, is what had initially arrested Crowley on the stairs. From above, they had looked like angels, following one by one across the yard. And he had watched them, feeling melancholy, feeling lonely. 

He’s not really alone, though. Not on Earth. Not even in the country, at the moment. There is another demon in Scotland, this year. Crowley has met up with them, once or twice, to discuss business. They are all right, for a conversation or two. They are somewhat familiar. It’s enough to stave off the desperate disconnect. Though not enough to feel warm. 

Crowley has been making an effort to be more familiar with his brethren, stationed on Earth, but none of them seem able to fill the space that Aziraphale’s presence can fill, in him. He wondered, initially, if it was an angel thing - but he’s met one or two angels who would tolerate his presence (if only for a conversation or two) and they have felt like distant strangers. Never has he felt, with an angel or a demon, that inherent balance he feels around Eden’s gatekeeper. There is never that sense of calm, with anyone else. That sense of completion. Perhaps it is because he and Aziraphale were made to oppose one another precisely. Or, perhaps it’s something a lot more personal. 

Something more personal shouldn’t be possible, Crowley thinks, staring out into the darkening skies, but who is he to judge what is possible, in this world. These are not the laws of Heaven or Hell at play, he thinks, watching snow flurry in the yard outside, catching the gold of the braziers. It is the laws of Earth that rule here. Though the demon has tried to learn those laws diligently, he still always finds himself falling short. Every time he thinks he knows everything there is to know about human motivations, they’ll do something new, invent something insane, create something wonderful. 

She made a good investment, he thinks, in humanity. 

Taking a sip of his wine, he wishes it were warmer. He thinks about the young man in the top room of the castle and decides he cannot face the temporary elation and cold withdrawal of sex with a stranger. He cannot face that moment when the sweat cools and the heartbeats slow, and he eventually has to turn around and accept that the creature against his back does not know him. And that he needs to extricate himself from their warm blankets and head out, into the cold of the world. It’s easier just to stay out in the cold, he thinks. At least the numbness kills the ache. 

Of course, there is another option for tonight, Crowley reminds himself. He is not a creature of mortal means. He can travel further than the town below, if need arises. He can shift this body across vast tracts of space, if he knows where he is guiding it to. It is an enormous expense of magic and he will be vulnerable, when he arrives at his destination. It is a risk, but - as soon as the possibility of it crosses his mind - the demon knows it is exactly what he wants to do. 

There is one other demon in Scotland, right now, and three angels. 

A guardian angel resides in Dundee, among the court there. Making political moves within the aristocracy and landed gentry. 

Another works on the west coast, combating the actions of Crowley’s demonic colleague, who is trying to stir a famine and rebellion. 

And a Principality resides on the border with England, in an abbey just outside the small town of Kelso, collating and cataloguing ancient latin scrolls. Probably with painstaking accuracy. Probably by hand. Because he’s a twat. 

Crowley lies his face against the side of the stairwell niche, feeling the cold edge of stone press into his cheek. 

He’s an idiot for wanting to go there, for wanting to seek Aziraphale out, even when he has no reason to. He is even more of an idiot for knowing that he’s definitely going to do it - even though he knows it’s a terrible idea. His head is fuzzy with wine and his body is ravaged with want and it's stupid, _it’s so stupid,_ to transport himself somewhere where he knows an angel is and leave himself intentionally without the ability to channel any more of his powers. His mortal body will be exhausted upon arrival. He will be unable to defend himself. But he won’t have to, he thinks, feeling that familiar burning warmth rise up within him, because _Aziraphale_ will be there. And Aziraphale has never tried to harm him. 

He’s an idiot. 

He can’t go. He absolutely can’t go.

He’s spent the last hundred years actively avoiding Aziraphale. What’s he supposed to do? Slink down to the abbey and chuck stones at the window until the angel inside notices him, unable to cross the threshold of holy ground, and lets him in?

Aziraphale will smile, Crowley knows. He’ll smile and greet him, as though the demon hasn’t just spent the last hundred years ignoring any efforts to get in contact. He’ll ask Crowley how he is and how things are going, and he’ll invite him in - forgetting that Crowley can’t come into a house of God - and then he’ll fluster because he’s forgotten that the demon is a demon and Crowley will feel shit and stupid, and probably make some excuse and leave. 

It’s stupid. 

He’s definitely going. 

The way back down the stairs is hazy. The demon has drank too much, but thankfully not enough that he can't sober up. He remembers Christmases long ago - before they were Christmases, back when they were midwinter celebrations, leftover from pagan religions. He remembers waking in Aziraphale’s bed with his body aching from alcohol, a little note from the angel pinned to his cloak to say he was going out, but the demon should make himself at home and he’ll be back later. He skipped out before the angel returned, that morning. He’s skipped out on the angel a number of times, since. 

They keep doing this thing where they meet up and he drinks too much, and all he’s trying to do is summon a few words, in the right order, and force them past his lips - but he can’t. He’s never been able to. He just wants to strangle his thoughts out, get it over with, get it all out in the open, but he can't. Instead, he drinks more than he should and then says something harsh, or cruel, and they part on semi-awkward terms. It's happened four times, since that week they spent together, in Antioch, and Crowley is not sure if it’s ever going to stop. How is he supposed to backtrack from tempting his best friend into bed and shoving his hand down his pants, when all he’d really meant to do was say he was a little in love with him? 

He doesn’t really know what he’d intended to say, that night. It had just been such a strange week. He’d been in a weirdly good place and the angel had been so protective, because of the child, and the hormones involved in getting a body to lactate had been addling his brain. And the angel had just kept taking care of him. Kept looking after him. It had felt like that thing that Crowley had always observed in humanity but never really experienced himself. It had felt like family. Being a part of something. Belonging. And it had been far, far too much. And he’d been far, far too needy. And of course he’d made it about sex, because he was a demon - and that’s _exactly_ what a demon would do. 

It had felt so right, at the time. It had been so good. The feel of their skin, and the sweetness of their mouths, and the thrilling knowledge that it wasn’t just anyone who was holding onto his hand, who was cradling his face against theirs, it was Aziraphale. It was someone who knew him, someone who cared about him. His angel. And he was real. Crowley could smell him, and taste him, and touch him, and feel him whimper against his cheek as sensation overwhelmed his earthly body. 

The earthly bit, they’d done beautifully at. The bit afterwards, where Crowley was supposed to say something, was where it had all gone wrong. 

He’d meant to say something. He really had. But he’d been caught off guard by his own daring and, as they lay there together afterwards, his insides thrilling with joy - feeling like he had crossed some threshold, finally entered into something worthwhile - he had suddenly become aware of how unusual their current situation was. They’d been pretending to be a little family for days, he thought. Aziraphale had been watching him doing something nice and he was probably all caught up in that pretence - not in the reality of what Crowley actually was. Suddenly, he had been utterly, horribly certain that their situation was why the angel had allowed this to happen. His friend wanted the pretence, not the reality. And, with that, his brain had jammed. 

The words hadn’t come. He had just lain there, feeling the sweat cool, feeling his friend lean into him, nudging a nose affectionately into a cheek, tensing up as he didn’t get a response. 

There had been this really long minute, where their faces still lay in close approximation, his lips still brushing against the angel’s forehead. Sixty seconds, where he could have said something, or done something, or even just kissed him again. But he’d bottled it. And then Aziraphale had gone all awkward, so he’d gone even more awkward, and muttered something about not wanting to talk about it. 

And then, all of a sudden, it had been the next morning, and they were carrying the child across the city, to a young woman who had lost a child of her own. And Crowley was handing over the little life he had saved, by giving from his own body. And he’d no longer had any reason to stay. And the pretence was shattered. And he was just a demon again - not part of a family, not even a pretend one.

And then, as they had walked back down through the snow-dusted city, Aziraphale had turned to him and quietly asked if he’d like to stay another night. And he’d bottled it again. 

_Idiot._

Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, near the entrance to the great hall of the castle, Crowley lies his head against the stone wall and takes a moment to sober up. He’s been a complete idiot about the whole situation, he thinks, as the view of the hall become instantly less fuzzy, as his body becomes instantly more stable, without the haze of alcohol. He knows there is nothing he could have said which would have made the whole situation easy, but there were plenty of placeholders. 

_Listen, let’s not make a big deal out of this, but I’m a little in love with you._ _I’m not asking for anything. I just wanted you to know._

_I feel like we are supposed to fit together. I thought, maybe, you’d let me exist in the periphery of your life. I hope that’s okay._

It’s a stupid situation. The best, most demonic thing he could do is ignore it. He should head back inside the great hall and drink more, he thinks. He should disappear upstairs and find that young guardsman, with the warm hands and the warm bed. He should definitely not transport himself a hundred miles to the south and freeze his ass off outside just to have another awkward encounter with an angel, where his forked tongue ties and he cannot say the right thing. 

_Fuck._

He slips outside into the night to do it. Screws up every ounce of his power to land it correctly. He doesn’t want to end up in the church, or a couple of miles short of where he means to be. Its a cold, damned night and he’s not sure his not-quite-enough body would survive an elongated traipse through frozen countryside. 

It is a risk, the transport, because he’s not sure that someone hasn’t but wards between where he is and where he’s going. There are multiple curses and blessings that could throw him off-track, but he is lucky and none of them affect him, tonight. 

He lands it perfectly. 

Out of existence in one place. Back into it, somewhere else. 

The air smells different in the field at the back of the churchyard. The muck of the castle stable yards is gone. The smell of smoke, too. Everything is sharp, clear, smelling faintly of a nearby pine wood. Unlike the clouds hanging over Stirling, the sky here is clear. Above Crowley’s head, it is brilliant, inky blue, pinpricked with stars. Having his head back, the demon looks up at them for a moment, before gathering himself and turning slowly on the spot. 

He’s in the right place. He can sense Aziraphale immediately. The abbey is a small one - a little collection of ramshackle stone buildings and wooden roofs. The cloisters are open to the elements along one side, the wall tumbled by some skirmish that has happened during the past twenty years of civil war. They are near the border, the demon thinks. It’s still not completely safe, here. Its why the order will be folding soon, its members dispersing to other places. Some of their works they will take. The angel is here to make sure that others do not get lost. 

Crunching forwards though the snow, the demon thinks back to the last time he saw Aziraphale, in a small pub just west of London. He had told him all about illuminations and calligraphy and waxed lyrical about books and the demon had listened and tried not to think that the angel was only pretending to be comfortable in his presence. Tried not to think about that long moment of awkward silence after they had rolled apart, in Antioch. Tried not to think about the perfection of their warm bodies pressed up against one another. They had argued about something stupid, in the pub, that night. They had fallen into silence. Then, Crowley had said he had to leave and they had split up their tasks between them. He had agreed to do some blessing in Perth while he was up north and the angel had agreed to see to a tempting, in one of the border towns. They had parted with a hasty goodbye. 

The field is muddy but frozen, beneath the demon’s feet. Hoof-prints from the local cattle have been solidified, into crests and waves. They crunch as Crowley walks over them. As does the grass at the far side, by the fence. 

The demon hops a style, finds a path, follows it around towards the front gates of the abbey. And there, he halts. He can go no further.

There is a moment of terrible indecision. He cannot set foot within holy grounds without pain and potentially damaging consequences. He can feel the angel, but he’s not sure that Aziraphale has ever been able to feel him. He used to think he could sense the angel’s presence because, in proximity, their powers fought to cancel one another’s out. As he has got to know Aziraphale, however, he has realised that the angel's powers far eclipse his own. He is more nullified than balanced, by his counterpart. Really, there should be no reason for his presence to register at all. 

It's nothing personal, Crowley thinks, looking up at the night-lit abbey. Darkness is just like that. Wherever it goes, however far it spreads, it only needs the tiniest spark of light to banish it. Darkness is just an absence. Perhaps that is why he felt so empty, whenever they were apart. 

The demon glances down at his feet. 

There are pebbles on the path. He could pick some up, chuck them at the building on front of him and try to get someone’s attention, but he isn’t sure which room Aziraphale is in, or if he has the precision to aim. His body is worn out. He cannot channel any further power, at the moment. Not without a rest. His cloak around his shoulders is all that is keeping him warm. In their light boots, his feet are beginning to freeze. 

Deciding that a reccy is in order, the demon is about to set off on a circuit of the stone walls, to try and glimpse a bit of what was going on inside, when a noise off to his left causes his head to whip around. 

“Crowley?”

Damn the heat that rushes up the base of his spine. Damn the hope that springs up, each time. Demons are not meant for hope. But then he’s always been a bit of a shit demon…

He turns around

“Angel.”

“Crowley, it _is_ you!”

Aziraphale is standing, wrapped in a long brown woollen blanket, a hat pulled half over his head and habit of one of the local order, underneath. He looks small, slightly lumpy, a bit ruffled. His hair has grown a bit long, Crowley thinks. He can see a few curls poking out from under one ear. 

The demon finds himself smiling. Not sure why. 

_Absolutely sure why._

“Merry Christmas,” he offers, stupidly. 

For a microsecond, it is awkward, and then it is not - because the angel is smiling, too, the surprise on his face shifting into delight. He takes a few steps forwards. 

“What in Heaven’s name are you doing here?”

He’s still grinning like a lunatic. He looks very silly in his hat. He looks extra silly because his feet are bare, Crowley thinks, as his eyes travel once more over the angel. He must have hurried out without bothering to put on shoes, when he felt him arrive. 

He must have _felt_ him arrive, the demon thinks, brain ticking slowly into gear.

_He can feel him._

The thought causes a slow dispersal of heat through his abdomen. 

“Just thought I’d pop by… holidays and all,” he mutters, eyeing Aziraphale's bare feet. 

“Well, Merry Christmas!” The angel takes another step forwards, until they are facing one another over five feet or so of patchy snow. 

The demon shifts his stance. 

“Yeah. Who’d have known… Here they are, still celebrating it.”

“Over a thousand years later.” The angel’s eyes are pale, in the starlight. Pure silver. “Crowley, this is an entirely unexpected pleasure. I thought you were up north for the next few years.”

“Yeah, well..” The demon’s eyes seem switching between the angel’s bare toes and the silver of his eyes - as if it’s too much for his brain to process both at the same time. The toes are bright pink from the cold. “I was passing through,” he lies, vaguely. Then, as Aziraphale gives a polite little frown, he realises he can’t start lying now. He’s five thousand years too late to break that particular habit. “Okay, I wasn’t really in the area…” he shrugs, watching the angels eyes shift across his face, probably finding his cheeks a little pink. At least he can say it is the cold… “I was in the country, though, and it is Christmas.” He shrugs again. “People visit each other at Christmas, angel.”

“They do,” the angel muses. “They give gifts now, too, and sing songs, and attend special masses. It’s become quite a thing.” The smile is still clinging to his mouth, a few lines marking out the corners of his eyes. He has not looked away from Crowley’s face. “I hear some of the nobles hold great banquets, just as the Romans used to, at midwinter.”

“Yeah.” 

They do. He’s just come from one. It was probably the best party in all the Kingdom, tonight. Warm, and full of wine, and food, and attractive guests, and finery. And Crowley would rather be here, a hundred times over. 

Shoving hands deep into his pockets, the demon wonders if he has anything on him that could constitute a gift. There’s nothing but a pinecone and a few small coins in his left pocket. Only lint in his right. Hasn’t any bag with him, either, nothing else at all but the dark robe he wears and a couple of pieces of jewellery. The pin that fastens the neck of his cloak, however, he’s always been rather fond of. 

“Here,” he reaches his up and slides it free, tossing it over to Aziraphale. 

His aim is not as terrible as he had assumed, without his powers. Or, perhaps, his powers are not as faded as they would be. Perhaps Aziraphale is regenerating them, filing him up with that light he always carries inside of him. 

“A gift,” the demon grins. “For Christmas.”

The angel turns the pin over, eyes tracing the engravings on the front. Two snakes winding around a winged staff. 

Quite unusually, Crowley had found it, rather than bought or stolen it. It was a bit of a weird story, actually. He had been traveling, late one night, and stopped by the side of the road, and there it had been, laying in the burnt-out remnants of a campfire. A dealer of antiquities, in London, had told him it was a greek symbol - the staff carried by Hermes, the messenger god. Probably belonged to someone who owned a postal service. It was too fine a thing to be owned by an actual messenger. 

Crowley had kept it because of the approximation of the snakes and wings.

“It’s not worth anything,” he tells Aziraphale, hoping the face that he pulls speaks nonchalance. “Just a something I found, ages ago. Went with the snake theme…”

It’s probably very telling that he wears wings, the demon thinks, as the angel holds his silence. Aziraphale probably knows it is because they remind Crowley of him. Probably thinks he’s a flaming idiot because of it. Probably thinks he’s a flaming idiot because of a lot of things. A shit demon. Already walked blindly into Hell, once. Now doing it again, more figuratively. More willingly. 

Crowley shifts in the snow, feeling it crunch under his boots. His eyes are locked on Aziraphale. 

_Go on then, destroy me with your words, with your silence. Turn away, ignore this. Do something. Just don’t make me stand here any longer._

“Will you come inside?” The angel asks him, softly. 

“Probably shouldn’t,” the demon murmurs back, once he’s gathered himself. "All the burning and discorporation and all that.” He motions towards the abbey. “Holy stuff. Not a great look, on me.”

“I don’t live within the grounds.”

“Eh?”

“I’ve been staying in a little cottage, away from the main buildings.” The angel has closed his hand around the gold pin, then closed his other hand around the first, holding it in against his chest. “Neither the ground nor the stone is consecrated.”

Crowley stares at him.

“Oh.”

“Just in case you stopped by, sometime.”

“Right.”

They stare. 

It is a moment. A whole thing. Complete with soaring feelings and a tightening sensation, deep in the demon’s gut. The angel purposefully chose to keep his residence outside the abbey walls. He purposefully made it safe for Crowley. Just in case. Because he _wants_ him there. Because he can feel him and he wants him there, in his home. 

Crowley shivers. His left foot is numb. His right one sitting uncomfortably over a stone. His toes are wet. 

_This is so much better than a banquet._

“I’m afraid I didn’t get you a gift,” Aziraphale tells him, with a slightly sheepish smile. 

He could not care less. 

“Let me warm up by your fire and I’ll forgive you?”

The angel’s mouth opens into a wide smile again - familiar pink lips over perfectly straight teeth. 

“Of course. Anytime.”

_Anytime._

The demon has to shake himself, to get his thoughts back in order. 

“All right, then. Lead on.”

.

Aziraphale leads him around to the little cottage he lives in, beyond the abbey grounds, and locks them both safely inside. He stokes the fire and warms his pink toes by the fire - blushing as Crowley makes some comment about him wandering around without shoes on, like some pagan. 

Wine is produced at some point and they drink it on the floor by the grate, because elsewhere in the room it is cold enough to see their breath. It is probably warmer within the priory walls, the demon thinks. He wonders what the abbot thinks about his angel choosing to live beyond the limits of consecrated stone. He wonders what they would think, if they knew it was to allow a demon respite, from the cold. 

The pair manage to catch up without any overtly awkward moments. Perhaps, it is the spirit of the season, relaxing them a bit. Friends are supposed to meet up at Christmas, after all. They’re meant to host and give gifts, and drink by firesides. They’re meant to put the rest of the year behind them, for a time, and just spend time. That was the point, the demon had gathered, from watching the people embrace the holiday over the last few hundred years. It was about family. 

Crowley falls asleep by the fire, eventually, nestled in a pile of hastily miracled pillows and blankets. Nudging his soft furnishings into a comfortable nest, he buries himself deep, so that only his head is visible. Aziraphale sits in a chair, nearby, transcribing one of his ancient scrolls by hand. He looks incredibly comfortable, the demon thinks, watching him through half-lidded eyes. Feet tucked up beneath him, hat still pulled down over his ears, curls still poking out from beneath it. He looks as he should. Perfectly Aziraphale. 

“Why, in Satan's name, are you doing that by hand?” Crowley mutters up at him, as he dozes off.

The angel glances down at him, dipping his quill in the ink pot, perched on the arm of the chair. “Because it’s proper, Crowley. I can’t just go around _miracling_ art back together, that’s not how art works. It has to be cared for.”

A rush of warmth spreads through him. 

“You’re an idiot,” he mutters, darkly. 

The angel fixes him with a supercilious expression, throws a sulky little pout, then returns to his transcribing. Crowley notices that he throws another glance down half a minute later, though, to see if the demon is still watching. 

He is. 

He watches Aziraphale for at least five minutes, listening to the soft scratching of his quill and the crackling of the fire, until contentment and warmth build to a point where his body gives him no other option than to submit to sleep. 

As he lets his eyelids slide shut, Crowley knows that he should really have said something. He’s gone too long already without saying something about all the shit that’s happening, deep inside of him. But the night has been a good night, and he’s unwilling to spoil it. Some other year, perhaps, he tells himself, curving his back into the heat of the fire like the heat-seeking reptile that he is - a not-quite-mammal, curled on an angel’s hearth. Some other century. 

He doesn’t want to ruin things. He’s missed this. 

“Night angel,” he murmurs, as he begins to slip from consciousness. 

“Goodnight, Crowley.”

.


	6. Hampton Court Palace

_1534_

The banquet is spectacular. The food beyond anything the angel could have dreamt up. There is boar, cooked in rosemary, caught by the king and his huntsmen the previous day. There is partridge and swan, and numerous small quails, and rows of roasted fish, and mysterious colours of vegetables, and sauces beyond count, and pies and pastries around the middle of the table. All is luxurious and cooked to perfection.

The whole experience is everything one would expect from Christmas at the royal court. There are cloves and flowers strewn on the floor amongst the straw, and incense and candles burning in all the brackets. A roaring fire sits at each end of the hall and the high ceiling is bedecked with ivy and berries.

The Lord of Misrule, bedecked in ribbons and scarves, wearing a robe of bells, presides over the assembled throngs of nobles, herding a train of magicians and fools, and actors, and singers. There is laughter and shouting and cards being played, dice being thrown. At least three squabbles have been started and then ended, in earnest friendship, because the wine is flowing and the angel is feeling benevolent and - really - it’s not the end of the world to have a peaceful day at court, once in a while.

Even the demon present doesn’t object.

Crowley will wile another day. He had told the angel so just that morning, as they watched the King conduct his part in Matins. There were plenty of days until the New Year and everyone that he wished to influence would be easier targets if they were feeling relaxed after a full day of goodness.

“So, go ahead,” the demon had grinned, from his position just beyond the doors of the royal chapel. “Do your worst. We’ll see whose charms they fall for.”

From his position, just inside the doors, the angel had crossed his arms and rolled his eyes.

It is pretence, at best, their rivalry. They continue to send reports back to their masters, confirming the tasks that they have carried out, in Heaven and Hell’s respective names. They both tow the company line. They both have good reputations, amongst their colleagues. But - unknown to Heaven or Hell - about half of their tasks they report back on have been performed by a member of the opposition.

The angel cannot even begin to comprehend the bollocking he will receive, if anyone ever finds out. It bothered him for years, when they first started. He had gone to extreme lengths, every time he set out to do Crowley a favour, to check that he wasn’t followed - that he wasn’t leaving a trail that would seal both of their fates. He had been so careful. So diligent. And then, one day, he had bumped into one of the guardian angels who worked in the area, completely by chance, while out laying a trail of temptation for some poor soul.

She had asked what on earth he was doing. And he had bluffed his way through the situation, with some tale about the human needing to recognise his greed in order to overcome it. And she had agreed. And so had the other angels she had told. And policies had been changed. And he had received a commendation. And Crowley had nearly pissed himself laughing when he had told him about it, the following spring.

Nobody else has come close to uncovering their activities. Over the few hundred years of The Arrangement (as they have taken to calling it), Aziraphale has become far more accomplished at performing the intricate magics required to lay human temptations and curses. Though he would never admit it to Crowley, it has led to his approaching some of his Godly work in a slightly different manner. It has led to him thinking a bit harder, about motivations, and the blurry line between good and bad. It has made him a better angel, pretending to be a demon, now and again.

Sitting at the lowest end of the great dining table, the angel can lean back in his seat slightly and see the demon, flirting ostentatiously with a young woman up at the other end.

Crowley is perfectly androgynous tonight. Tall and flat chested, but fine boned and long haired. He is wrapped in the costume he had performed in earlier that afternoon; a silver plated dragon, ousted by a mummer St George. There is silver at his wrists and ankles, silver embroidery in his black breeches and doublet, silver cape thrown coyly over one shoulder, silver leaf in his hair - which is drawn back in an intricate series of braids. The masque head of the dragon hangs on a ribbon from his belt. He wears it like a badge of honour.

Crowley attends the party, tonight, as an artisan and the Queen’s guest. It’s what gives him the flexibility to dress as he likes, and act as he pleases. It is why nobody is paying much attention to him, slotted in halfway up the table, chatting to the lesser daughter of a greater Duke. He doesn’t give off the sort of intentions that a father would worry about.

As Aziraphale watches, the girl laughs and reaches up, to place a flower in one of the demon's braids. The angel experiences a soft, warm feeling, to see the enjoyment on Crowley’s face.

The demon likes being touched, though he’ll never admit to it. He seeks it out, sometimes, in the little ways he leaves himself open, leaves himself just within arms’ reach, leaves himself slightly in the way. The angel always obliges, when the opportunity presents its self. A touch on the arm, a pat on the back, a brush of some dust or a leaf from the demon’s clothing. He knows they shouldn’t. He knows that it will inevitably lead them back down a road that they didn’t cope terribly well with, the first time around, but Crowley likes being touched, and he likes seeing his friend happy, and, well… it pleases him, as well.

He’s feels the briefest tug of envy, to see the young woman touching his hair, tonight, but it vanishes the instant Crowley’s eyes seek him out, along the table.

The demon finds him. Grins. Winks.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. Looks away. Smiles into his pudding.

It is not unusual for them to be in the same place, at the same time, for work. Their territories and assigned human populations overlap. Their tasks often contradict one another's. They are made to oppose, Aziraphale knows. He is Crowley’s foil, the defence that stands between the demon and humanity. Sometimes, that role is difficult. Sometimes, the angel thinks - glancing surreptitiously back down the table, to see Crowley fixing his young friend’s hairpiece, mischief alive in his expression as he makes her giggle at his (likely bawdy) stories - it is easier than it has any business being.

They night moves on, around them.

Aziraphale dines and drinks, and talks to the humans, and Crowley is lost in the crowds, for a while; cavorting among the queen and her ladies, and then with the young woman he sat with, at dinner, and then with a friend of that woman.

He reappears at Aziraphale’s elbow around four o’ clock, handing the angel a glass of wine and mouthing something in his ear that Aziraphale does not hear, over all the noise of the musicians. But, when the angel frowns and says ‘sorry what, dear boy?’ the demon just grins and slips off into the crowd.

He spots him chatting with a young Earl, around five. Then, trying on a guardsman’s hat, around seven. It is not until nine, when the musicians strike up for the second time and people take to the floor to dance, that he returns to Aziraphale’s side again.

“You should dance with me,” he announces, a little breathless as he slides up beside the angel, at the edge of the dance floor. “I’m a good dancer.”

Aziraphale, who has witnessed multiple times through history that this is not patently true, raises an eyebrow.

“Well, that’s by the by, Crowley… Angels don’t dance. Surely you know that?”

“Why don’t they dance?” The demon demands, walking around him, in an arc, in that determined way he has that means that Aziraphale’s eyes are going to follow him, however far his neck has to turn. “No rhythm?”

“Perhaps.” A tiny smile tips the edges of the angel’s lips. He cannot help himself. “We just don’t tend to.”

“Well…” Crowley pulls a face. “Angels don’t tend to tempt bishops into dipping into the church coffers, either.” His eyes are fixed unblinkingly on the angel, over the rim of narrow glasses. He’ll take them off, later, when it’s just the two of them, Aziraphale thinks. He’ll see those eyes properly, later. “Not many angels to be spotted cursing byway signage, to get travellers lost, either… or helping thieves escape from jail…”

“He was only a bread thief…”

All of these things are favours he has done. Favours for a friend. All small. All quite innocent, really. Crowley has never asked anything too dangerous of him, anything too sinister, or demonic. The temptations he brings to their Arrangement fall within a narrow parameter of a demon’s work. Just as he only shares details of a narrow parameter of the temptations he conducts, himself. Crowley holds a lot back. Aziraphale knows it is because he is afraid it will push them apart, to see the truth of him.

But I know the truth of you, he thinks I know what you are, beneath your human skin, beneath your bones, beneath the title they gave you in Hell and the eyes that mark you out as Fallen.

“I don’t dance,” he says, softly.

“You could dance.” Crowley does another arc around and then stands, hip cocked to one side, head tilted to the other. A little little tease.

“I couldn’t possibly. I don’t know the steps,” the angel blusters, turning his face back forwards, to watch the dancers. They move beautifully around one another, in well-worn patterns. It does not look difficult. He’d pick it up in minutes, he imagines, if he tried. It’s just that angels don’t dance.

“I could teach you.”

The demon steps in towards him, turning at the same time, so that their shoulders brush at the tips.

Aziraphale stays facing forwards, watching the young queen grasp the hand of her brother, and laugh as he spins her. Watching her turn in the centre of the room, and grasp hands with her King, this time, and spin again. Their cheeks are red with wine. With life.

“I know you could.”

The conversation is a little not about dancing, but neither of them talk about that. _That_ lies deep below the surface. All the things Crowley could do for him. Has done for him. Would probably do again, if Aziraphale asked. 

Then stand a bit longer, watching the dancers, then Crowley suggests they get a drink, instead, and they wander from the dance floor to find something drinkable. They find a good port next door, where everyone is playing cards, and Crowley slips in behind a young man he attended the hunt with, yesterday, and introduces Aziraphale. Then, they’re all playing dominos and Crowley is cheating by changing the number of little dots on the back of the pieces, and Aziraphale is trying to stop him from cheating, and they lose all of his money, because they’re laughing too hard. And then the humans drift off. And the angel and the demon drift on.

They watch a few noblemen play cards, then watch a famous harpist play a new song. Crowley introduces him to the girl who had placed the flower in his hair, at dinner, and she curtsies beautifully and tells Aziraphale that she adores the embroidery on his doublet. He bestows the tiniest of blessings on her as she walks away, to join her sisters, by the door.

“Come on, angel,” the demon says, rolling his eyes and wrapping fingers around his forearm, tugging him on.

They move on through the next room, back past the card tables, and out - briefly - into the night air, past three men with cigars talking in low whispers. (‘Sea explorers’, the demon grins, throwing a look back at Aziraphale. ‘They’ve been even further than us, angel. There’s a chap in Portugal who says he’s going to sail around the world.’).

Crowley leads him on, past the braziers where the people congregated earlier, to watch a few rockets set off in the sloping lawn. The angel has seen better, before, on the other side of the world, but there had been something delightful about watching the sky fill with light with Crowley at his side, glasses pushed low on that long nose, pupils slitted up tight in the bright flashes of colour.

They move past the little garden, filled with candles and ornamental fairies, where a few couples and their chaperones are perambulating, wrapped in furs. They move around the side of the palace and find an ice sculpture, sitting in the courtyard. They admire it, then the winter roses, then Aziraphale diverts - as they head back towards the palace doors - to admire the dark velvet noses of the carriage horses, waiting to take the nobles home.

The creatures shy away from Crowley, instinctively. The angel tries to calm them, but to no avail.

“They can always tell i’m not human,” the demon explains, as they turn and head back towards the palace doors. “Sometimes, with a bit of a glamour, I can get up and ride for a while. But it’s always a matter of time before they throw me.”

“Perhaps they just need to get to know you better?” The angel suggests.

“Doubt it. I once met a man whose father was thrown and trampled by a horse he’d raised from a foal. Never did a thing wrong to it, his whole life. If they can turn on him, they’ll definitely turn on something like me.”

“Something must have spooked it.”

“Yeah. Probably a snake in the grass.”

They look at one another.

There’s half a smile on Aziraphale’s lips, half a question in Crowley’s eyes. His large golden irises are just visible over the rim of his glasses, a strange expression on his face, as if he’s unsure whether or not he can laugh. It’s not quite a joke - but it is, at the same time. It’s a little acknowledgement of what he is. Of how the angel is okay with that.

“Come on,” he says, dropping the angel’s gaze and moving back towards the palace. “It’s bloody cold. Let’s go back inside.”

They walk the long way back to the great hall; past the explorers shrouded in smoke and dreams, past a stairwell where two young women are kissing desperately, past a room filled with white-bearded men discussing land tax, past tables glinting with gifts for the king.

Arriving back at the dance floor, Aziraphale isn’t quite quick enough to say no, when Crowley asks him to join in.

“Come on, I’ll teach you,” he insists, gently, hand sliding down, thumb pressing into the warm underside of the angel’s wrist, where his heart is hammering away.

 _Far too fast, far too fast, far too fast._

“No, Crowley…”

“It’ll be fun.”

“People will see-,”

“But they won’t notice,” the demon grins. They can make it so that no humans notice. And the demon is the Queen’s guest, besides. And they wouldn’t be the only two man-shaped creatures dancing. So long as it is all done with a veneer of jest, even the cardinal at the far end of the hall won’t look twice. “Trust me,” Crowley says, softly, holding out a hand.

And Aziraphale does trust him, so he nods, and takes his hand, and they slip in amongst the other dancers. And one more difference between angels and demons rubs away into nothingness, between them.

They dance, following the steps. Aziraphale is slightly out of time, Crowley occasionally goes the wrong way on purpose, just to amuse him - twirling back in with such dramatic flair that the young ladies dancing alongside them dissolve into fits of giggles. They step and they turn, winding along their own separate sides of the hall in time to the music. And then they raise their hands, clapping, meeting in the middle. Their palms pressing against one another’s, they spin around one another... and everything beyond Crowley becomes a blur.

They fall apart afterwards, laughing with some of the young ladies who shared the dance. And then Crowley tugs him off to one side, into a servant’s stairwell off the main hall, where they are alone.

Stowing his tinted glasses in a pocket, he presses a handkerchief-wrapped shape into Aziraphale’s hand.

“Merry Christmas, angel."

“Crowley… you shouldn't have. I didn't get you anything,” the angel mumbles, unable to look away from his friend’s finally unobscured eyes - away from how they are focussed down, on his hands, but somehow also watching his face for some sign of approval.

“You never do,” the demon grumbles. “That’s the joke.”

He never does.

It is the joke.

The first few Christmases after the demon had given him that golden pin, the angel had dithered over seeking the demon out to return the favour. He had dithered too long, however, Crowley had beat him to the punch. He had caught the angel by surprise, ten years later, during a long journey across the north of France.  
  
Appearing at Aziraphale’s campfire, in the dead of night, he had pressed a small scroll of translations, rescued from a dissolved monastery, into the angel’s hands and just chuckled when he’d said he had nothing to offer, in return.

‘Let me sleep by your fire, and I’ll forgive you’, he’d grinned - an echo of his words of ten years earlier. And Aziraphale had let him.

He had visited on three other Christmases, between then and now, and he had presented the angel with a little gift, each time. First, a shell from a beach on which they had once been shipwrecked. Then, a chart of the heavens, plotted by one of their mutual friends, one hundred years previous. Then, a recipe that Aziraphale had thought he’d never taste again (it having gone out of custom nearly five hundred years before), scribbled down on a scrap of paper. They were all things without any inherent value. Yet, to the angel, they were priceless. Chosen with precision and care. For him.

He feels the shape inside the handkerchief. It is rectangular. A book, no doubt.

“What is it?”

“Open and see.”

Crowley’s eyes are still fixed downwards.

The angel pulls at the corner, removes the handkerchief, revealing a manuscript and which he turns gently over. It is a beautiful thing, if old, battered and rough around the edges. It is well thumbed, almost falling apart.

“Was one of the first things they printed with a press,” the demon mutters, his voice slightly strained. “Thought it was appropriate, as you still seem to think everyone writes these things out by hand…”

He doesn’t.

Crowley knows that he doesn’t.

It’s just part of the joke. The demon mocks him for being caught behind the times, he makes a fuss, and any tension between them is diffused. But Aziraphale is too caught up in the beauty of the old book to perform his part, today.

Instead, he makes a little noise of delight, and carefully turns the manuscript back over, investigating the binding. There are parts that he could save, he thinks, with the right tools. He could rebuild this thing. Not remove the damage, but shore it up in other ways. Build around it. Make it stronger.

“It’s beautiful, Crowley, where did you find it?”

“Nicked it.”

Aziraphale looks up sharply.

The demon shrugs.

“Well... it wasn't stealing, really. I mean, someone else nicked it first. There was a peasant revolt and my lot wanted to see some destruction. So, I had some boys do the windows in on the town hall and some of them got carried away, afterwards - started chucking things out. This came flapping down and nearly discorporated me.” He motions at the manuscript. “Which is ironic, really, because it’s about a conversation with death.”

“With death?”

“Yeah. It’s apparently about some ploughman, who’s lost his wife, and is really cut up about it. And he tries to reason death into getting her back. Which sounds like a bad idea, if you ask me but I dunno…” He gives his head a little shake. “It’s probably stupid. And falling apart, as well. Just thought it might be funny… You should throw it out if it’s naff, though. Honestly angel, it’s just-,”

“It’s wonderful.”

Their eyes meet.

Crowley lets out a very tight breath.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale beams up at the demon, who hooks his fingers into his belt loop and leans back, in a transparent effort to look disinterested. His breaths seem to be coming more normally, now. “I can't actually read German,” the angel admits. It is not a criticism. Quite the opposite, in fact. He is excited by the prospect of picking up another language. His eagerness makes the corner of the demon’s mouth twitch slightly. “Thank you… thank you so very much, Crowley. I really must give you something in return, one day.”

“Ngk,” the demon shrugs. “It’s fine.”

“No really-,”

“It’s fine,” the demon insists, leaning back on his heels. His eyes meet the angel’s with totally sincerity. Wide, and gold, and honest. “Honestly, angel. One day is fine.”

“Right.”

They watch one another a long moment.

‘One day’ hovers in the air between them like a promise. Are they talking about the book? Something more? The angel isn’t sure.

There’s a hoop of greenery and berries strung up, over the top of the servant’s stair, behind them. The maids must have put it there as a joke, to catch out the pages. There is mistletoe strung in it, green with white berries. The humans pick them and take a kiss for each one. If he wanted to, Aziraphale thinks, he might be able to steer his friend a step over to his left, so he was standing underneath it. There is an opportunity, here, for a kiss to be taken and not questioned. He’s kissed Crowley before. That night, in Antioch. He liked it then. He’d like it, now.

That week they spent together is seared in his memory.

Crowley, draped around his rooms, complaining or telling stories or laughing, fetching things for them to eat from the market, while he was away, at the hospital. Coming back to more than empty walls and an empty bed. The gentle way Crowley had held the tiny human child. Washed him. Fed him. The way life and colour had returned to the child’s skin. The way Aziraphale felt his own soul seat more firmly in his body, to be around them both. They saved that boy together. And, for a week, he had felt like he had family. Something of his own - not Heaven’s. And he is so sure that Crowley must have felt some of that too, because why else would the demon have withdrawn so, after that night?

Aziraphale has given a lot of thought to that night. To the way his friend’s fingers traced his sides and nudged them closer, head tilted in, inviting. It had been coaxing, yes, but not like the temptations he has witnessed the demon perform, in the past. And the way Crowley had touched him had been so careful, so gentle, so loving. And the way the demon had rolled away from him, afterwards, had looked so much more like fear than regret - as Aziraphale had initially interpreted it.

Fear was probably the appropriate thing to feel, he thinks, watching Crowley watch him in the semi-darkness of the servant’s stairwell. This thing between them is ridiculous. It’s bad enough that they’re friends without starting to consider themselves bound in other ways. It is ridiculous. It’s dangerous. He needs to stop. But it’s hard to stop thinking about it when Crowley is pouring out love in his direction.

He did not feel the love beginning to grow, in the demon. It must have been too slow, too gradual. When they're together, once he’s acclimatised to the demon’s presence, it’s almost indistinguishable from the normal signature of his magic. But when Crowley catches him by surprise, he always feels it. He feels it, too, whenever there is a shift or deepening of the emotion. He feels that like a kick in the chest. And he feels the moments when it’s overwhelming Crowley.

It’s overwhelming, now.

“You usually ask to sleep by my fire,” the angel stammers, over the waves of the demon’s love. “In recompense for me not bringing you a gift.”

Crowley’s mouth smiles. His eyes do something different. A little darker.

“I have my own fire tonight, angel.”

“Yes, I imagine you have rooms in the palace?”

He nods.

“That sounds… nice.” Why are they talking about this? It’s just a front for what they really want to be saying. The angel’s eyes catch the mistletoe, again. Oh, what the hell… he might as well. “Look, mistletoe,” he mutters, nodding towards it. "The servants must have hung it. Funny lot, humans..."

Crowley doesn’t turn. He has clearly already clocked the decoration. Possibly knew it was there when he chose this location to hand over his gift.

“I think it is the ladies of the court who are obliged to kiss under the mistletoe, angel,” he says, playfully.

“Well. Thought it prudent to warn you... You do present yourself in that way, sometimes.”

“True.” The demon inclines his head, eyes never leaving the angel’s. “Not tonight, though.”

“I suppose not."

A pause. Half a dozen heartbeats.

“Do you like me better that way?”

“I like you all ways, Crowley.” The words come out a little too quiet, a little too honest.

The demon wrinkles his nose, in an attempt at disgust, but his grin is slipping wider. It's as though he cannot help himself. As if the words have drawn him in. He's leaning a little. Then, he’s stepping forwards and his hand is dropping to Aziraphale's side.

He steers them back against the little corner of the room, out of sight from the main hall. There’s a curtain off to one side of the stairwell and the velvet brushes Aziraphale’s arm as he steps back against the stone.

Crowley does not lead them in gently, this time. The first kiss is almost bruising. There’s so much want, behind it. So much need. The second is the same, lips pressing in, teasing open his mouth.

_They’re so hungry._

_They’ve been starving for so long._

The manuscript makes a dull sort of thud as it falls, cushioned by the straw on the floor and the handkerchief. The angel almost jumps at he sound. He had not intended to drop it. His fingers just sort of loosened, giving the book up in preference for grabbing onto his friend’s richly embroidered clothes.

His fingers find the gap between Crowley’s breeches and his belly, tugging him forwards by it. Their mouths meet, fast and wanting. One of Crowley’s hands has fallen against the wall, by his ear. The other is holding onto Aziraphale’s side, pulling his hips forwards even as the demon’s chest pushes his shoulders back. He tastes of port and cinnamon. And he’s warm, the angel thinks, so very warm.

He’s so much warmer than a human, inside. And the feel of his quickly forking tongue is startling. He’s something other, Aziraphale thinks, as his friend gives a breathless little noise and nudges them further into the corner, giving in to the need to press himself against the angel’s soft belly. Crowley is not human, not angel - a demon, bad. They really shouldn’t be doing this.

But surely it cannot be bad...

It feels as if they are made for this.

The demon tugs at him, adjusting a thigh, pressing the front of his breeches up against the swell of the angel's hip. Enough for friction. Enough for pleasure. Aziraphale’s hands slide around his back, pulling him closer, granting him permission to seek as much contact as he needs. And the demon gives a muffled groan against his mouth - a noise of thanks - and presses harder.

And individual actions begin to fade away. His mouth is hot and wet, and the thigh that he’s nudging up into Aziraphale is enough to make the angel whimper. And its all becoming far more real than just a little surface pleasure. There is heat building in his belly, tension in his spine. He's drowning in sensation and overpowering want. He needs more. Needs in. Needs something.

And then the solitude of the stairwell is broken.

A clattering sounds on the stairs, followed by footsteps and laughter, and five serving girls appear, carrying trays of food.

The angel and the demon break apart. One of Crowley’s hands remains on the wall but there’s suddenly distance between their bodies. He’s turned sideways, facing away from the stairs, panting. And Aziraphale can’t do anything but lean back against the wall and drop his hand from his friend’s side. He’s too dizzy, too full of want. But it’s fine, because Crowley’s body is shielding most of them. Only the top of his very flushed face is visible over the side of the demon’s arm.

The serving girls cease laughing and chattering immediately, as their eyes land on them. There is a brief pause, a brief moment of startled staring, then the eldest of them makes a soft ‘ahem’ noise and takes the lead.

She marches past, chin up, eyes averted, with the practiced ease of a servant who has walked in on countless nobles canoodling in corners before. The others follow and soon they are all out of sight, into the great hall, the faintest titters of laughter sounding their retreat.

The angel lets out a long breath, then turns his head to the left, looking up at Crowley.

The demon is breathing heavily, staring at the wall ahead of him. As Aziraphale’s eyes linger on his face, a grin begins to grow, at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, it’ss their own fault for hanging mistletoe, isssn’t it?” His golden eyes are filled with pupil,the effect quite predatory. “Kind of brought it on themselvesss…”

“They might have thought we were just arguing?” Aziraphale suggests.

A long second passes.

Crowley looks slowly around at him, eyebrow raised.

The angel looks back up, eyes as wide and innocent as he can make them. 

Then, they’re both dissolving into laughter and any tension about getting discovered, wrapped around one another like teenagers in some dark, seedy corner, is vanished. They’re just friends again, caught out in some mischief, together. And it’s fine. It’s really fine. Crowley’s pupils are returning to normal, as they slide over him, and his lips are drawing back in a toothy smile, lines marking out the corners of his eyes. It isn’t often that you got a proper laugh out of the demon, Aziraphale thinks - an open, untempered display of mirth - but this is one of them.

“Could have been testing our strength,” the angel continues. His suggestion earns another series of chuckles. “An existential discussion, of sorts.”

“A little wrestle, in the stairwell, to determine the fate of good and evil?”

“Yes, something like that.”

“…who do you think won?”

“Definitely good.”

“Fuck, angel...”

They laugh again, and Crowley slowly stands back upright, dropping his hand from the wall, sorting a few wayward strands of hair. His other hand tugs at his clothes, rearranging himself inside them. As he runs his tongue slightly over the inside of his lower lip, Aziraphale can see that it appears human once more.

He bends down, picks up the manuscript, dusts it off slightly and offers the handkerchief back to the demon, who demon takes it.

“Thank you,” the angel says, softly. “For the gift, for everything…”

There is a flicker of uncertainty in Crowley’s eyes. His shoulders draw forwards a little, his forehead creasing. He looks as if he’s searching for something - perhaps for the words to express some complex thought - something beyond the articulation of man. But, whether or not he finds them, he does not speak them aloud.

Giving a little shrug, he looks down instead, lips tilting into a faint smile. Still beautiful, but only a shadow of his earlier laughter.

“No problem. S’Christmas, isn’t it? People do this sort of thing at Christmas.”

“Quite.”

Aziraphale smiles back, then looks around, out to the hall.

“We should probably get back to the party,” he sighs. “Someone will miss one of us, eventually.”

“Yeah, s’pose so… Might need a minute, first.”

“Oh, yes…” the angel feels himself blush, slightly. “Good point. Probably wise.”

They head back out into the party a few minutes later - separately, through some unspoken agreement - and the angel strikes up conversation with a few acquaintances he finds near the drinks tables. Crowley joins in with the dancing, at the other side of the hall, and the rest of the evening passes pleasantly.

It’s comfortable, dipping in and out of one another’s presence, watch one another interact with the humans around them. Aziraphale drinks a little too much and laughs foolishly at the demon’s least funny jokes but - apart from throwing him a slightly amused glance when he does - Crowley doesn’t say anything about it. They are relaxed around one another. They share a conversation about the new Queen. They play another round of dominos. Good wins, as per usual.

The evening ends with the presentation of a gift and pledges of everlasting brotherhood between the King and the envoy of another country. A daughter is betrothed to a son, but the angel doubts it will stop the scheming of the fathers. Doubtless, their countries will be at war within months.

Watching the face of the young human who had been offered out, as bounty, the angel wonders if free will must always be countered by duty. That child probably has dreams and desires all of her own. But now she sails to Spain, to fatten her father’s purse and smooth an international disagreement. She has a duty, so she has no choice. She must serve, same as he.

Aziraphale glances over at Crowley, finding him watching proceedings from halfway up the staircase to the minstrel’s gallery. The demon seems to sense his gaze and looks down.

As the humans around them begin to leave - the declarations of peace and subsequent exit of the King signalling the end of the party - they stand still, for a moment, watching one another. Everything is shifting around them. For a moment, they are the only stationary point in the crowd, an anchor against the flow of time, and the turning of the earth. They are isolated, together. Just the two of them. More together than apart.

Then, the demon inclines his head, slightly. A farewell.

“Goodnight, Crowley,” the angel mutters up at him, knowing full well that his friend cannot hear him, over such a distance.

The demon seems to understand, though.

“Night, angel,” he mouths, then he slips off into the crowd and is lost to sight.

.


	7. London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year all!

_1666_

The city is turned to ash, under the snow. The effect is almost worse than the direct aftermath of the great fire. It is a dystopia. A ghost town. The humans who can afford to flee have fled, to the small towns around the city. The humans who cannot afford to leave have strung blankets up across the ruins - propped up wood and brick to make shelters. They make fires in the burnt out shells of their once-homes. They’re probably not much colder now than before, the demon thinks, as he crunches through the blurry landscape. London winters can be bitter and the narrow streets which burnt down were slums, at best. Few had glass in the windows. Fewer had fireplaces. They were almost as sooty before the great fire. Their inhabitants almost as dirty and cold.

There is a child running ahead of him through the street, clutching a broken branch in one hand.It is a piece of evergreen, of some sort, the colour stark against the monotone landscape. He’s shouting to an unseen brother, high voice echoing in the snow-muffled empty air. He’s barefoot. It’s shocking, somehow, though it has only been recently in history that children have worn proper shoes. The demon thinks of Aziraphale, so many Christmases ago - by that abbey, in Scotland,bare toes pink against the white ground.

He pulls his thick cloak tighter around his shoulders, moves onwards through the low afternoon light. It will snow again tonight, he thinks. The clouds are hanging, pregnant, overhead. He wonders if the small glowing embers of families he spots, in the tumbledown burnt out houses, will survive the season. Their cloaks are not as fine as his. They cannot draw warmth from the firmament of the universe. They cannot click their fingers and magic fire or food, or warm wine to line their stomaches and kill the claws of winter. They huddle for warmth, instead.

Like mammals do. Like snakes don’t. Like demons can’t.

The running boy’s brother hasn’t come. He slows, moves over to the side of the road, climbs on the remnants of an old cart and begins to act out some inner dialogue, waving his evergreen branch overhead like a flag. Crowley passes him, heading east, across the Fleet.

He is west of where the fire started, feet carrying him towards St Paul’s, towards the rookeries which lay in the belly of the former city proper. He has an appointment. An angel to meet. He wonders how incongruous Aziraphale will look against the backdrop of soot and destruction.

The thought of angels with dirtied wings brings a foul taste to the back of his throat. He thinks of Aziraphale laughing as he takes his hand, of the angel agreeing to some task for The Arrangement, of the way he has let Crowley press up against him, in dark corners of the world, and take. He shouldn’t take, he thinks. It’s greed, it’s blasphemy - and while his wings are already stained, his angel’s are not - and he wants Aziraphale clean. He wants him standing in the snow, outside an abbey in Scotland, feet clean and pink. He wants him far from dirt and ash, and demons who cannot speak love past forked tongues.

The roads become narrower as he progresses inwards, the skeletons of houses looming overhead. And he rounds the corner of the last, and the distant sight of the ruined St Paul’s greets him. Enough has tumbled down between the demon and the church that he can see the former gilt spires, tumbled into stone. There are labourers already repairing it, during the week, but today they are granted rest. It is Christmas after all, the demon thinks, pausing to admire the way the snow is collecting on the collapsed steeple, threatening to collapse the cross. The poor should be at home, freezing with their families.

He walks down through the side streets, emerges into what used to be a wider avenue, where food markets cropped up underneath the wooden overhang houses. It usually smells of blood and meat, and effluent, but today it smells of ash.

Aziraphale is perched on a low wall, near the base of one of the tumbledown buildings. He is dressed in pale cream and blue, but the colour of it is barely visible through the dirt. The snow around the feet of the five humans he is gathered with is churned up, mixed with mud and ash. They are setting a great piece of wood into place, to serve as the central beam over the walls of one of the houses. There are ropes and levers. The angel is in breeches and a shirt, doublet thrown over the side of a wall and sleeves rolled back as he takes the weight of one end of the beam with the larger two men. The other three steer.

Crowley watches from a distance, knowing that the angel could lift the beam with one hand, if he ever needed to. Aziraphale is strong.

It’s been twenty-three years since they have seen one another. Such an amount of time is nearly inconsequential, in the face of all that they have lived through, together, but it weighs upon the demon, this time. They have exchanged letters, occasionally, these last two decades, but things have been distant. There’s no reason, really, just circumstance. He’s been out of the country. Then Aziraphale has. They parted last on good terms, last they spoke. There is no awkwardness hanging between them. It’s just a thing. Sometimes their tasks lead them together. Sometimes they lead them apart. The last twenty three years have been apart years. Crowley is glad that they are over.

He approaches. The snow muffles his steps, but Aziraphale does not need to hear his steps to feel him there. 

The angel turns his head as the five men finally slot the beam into place, and throws the demon the faintest of smiles. Giving a nod that says he’ll be with him in a moment, he leans down, checking the seating of the wood, mumbling something to the men nearby. One of them motions to a hammer and he nods, points out the place where the pegs will need be knocked into place, to secure it. Then, clapping the younger of the two men on the shoulder, he turns and beings to climb down from the low wall.

He lands in the snow with surprising agility, and straightens up, brushing the snow from his breeches. He looks very human as he approaches, hair slightly damp with sweat, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal dirty forearms, blisters and cuts across the skin there.

“Why didn’t you wait until they were asleep?” Crowley asks him, as he approaches. “You could have raised it yourself in the night, and called it an act of God.”

“They’re learning a trade,” the angel replies, not bothering with a greeting. There are no real hellos or goodbyes between them, these days. Just the knowledge that this will continue, that they will continue, as they are, connected by the same magnetism that holds them to the skin of this fragile world. “They’ll be able to find work, once they’re through, here. More use to them than a single miracle.”

The demon breathes out, looking over at the soot stained building, at the brightness of the freshly cut beam the men are knocking into place. The dull sound of hammers against wood rings out in the silent air.

“Thought work was banned today, being Christmas and all.”

“The next patrol won’t be around until three,” the angel wipes his hands on his breeches, leaving dark streaks there. “And they’re not earning from it, so the taxman won’t have anything to say about it. It’s for his sister’s family,” he explains, indicating the elder of the three men.

Crowley turns back towards the angel, eyes travelling over the open neck of his shirt, remembering the last time they were together, when he was still wearing the wide ruffed collar of the gentry. Aziraphale never quite look like a noble. Never quite looked like a peasant, either. He was always a bit out of place. Always a bit more than human. Blending in is for demons, Crowley thinks. Angels glow - even if not always with holy light.

“Well, Merry Christmas, I suppose,” he mutters, darkly.

“Merry Christmas, Crowley.”

The angel’s pink smile widens, slightly, revealing white teeth. He has the slightest overbite and Crowley is not sure when he started to find that endearing. He should consider it an imperfection, he thinks, watching his friend, but nothing about Aziraphale seems imperfect or unintentional. Not the way he smiles, or the look in his eyes, or the way he rests his hands decidedly at his sides, thumbs pressed against forefingers.

“I’m afraid I dIdn’t get you anything, this time,” the demon tells him. “I mean, I did, but it’s not a gift.” Reaching into the bag he’s carrying over his shoulder, he brings out a book. “More of a favour to ask, really.”

Aziraphale raises an enquiring eyebrow.

“Do go on.” He takes the book, reads the title. “Genealogy?” 

“I need someone to find out about a distant blood relative… It’s all part of a long game, involving a fortune and a lot of very angry landowners. Need a bit of temptation, a bit of greed, and - preferably - something that could inspire enough envy for someone to start a career in politics to avenge a wronged grandfather.”

“That’s incredibly specific,” the angel comments, opening the first page of the book and leafing through it. “But I’ll do my best.”

“Thanks. I’ve written some notes on the parchment inside the front cover. Should have everything you need. I’d do it myself but I’ve burnt my bridges with the family. Thought it was simpler just to try a new face.”

“Not a problem. Happy to help.”

He doesn’t ask for anything in return. They haven’t done that in a while. More often than not, their Arrangement is a case of favours, not exchange.

They stand for a minute in the cold. Crowley tucks his fingers back into his cloak. He’s not sure how Aziraphale is comfortable in just a shirt, when he hasn’t exactly been expending energy to raise that beam. Then again, the angel has always run a lot warmer than he has. Even in the beginning. Even that first Christmas, he thinks, eyes sliding down the angel’s arms. His eyes arrest on his strong wrists, marked with scratches and the occasional streak of ash.

“How many more roofs do you have booked in, for today?” He asks, to distract himself from this disturbingly titillating glimpse of skin.

“That was the last one,” the angel closes the book, lowers it to his side, looks up at Crowley guilelessly. “I could do with a drink, actually. Do you fancy one?” He gives a half smile. “I imagine you owe me space by your fire, as you haven’t brought me a gift. That’s the deal, is it not?”

That, or a kiss up against a stairwell somewhere, the demon thinks, eyes trailing over his oldest friend - his only friend, his best friend, the thing he loves most about this whole damned world. He wonders what would soothe his soul more, after twenty-three years apart. A kiss or an evening?

As he cannot have both, he decides on the latter.

“I’m up in St Giles,” he tells the angel.

“Oh, you’re not, are you?” Aziraphale pulls a face at the name of the parish - known for being damp, and dangerous, and full of criminal activity.

Crowley raises an eyebrow. It is so very like his counterpart, complaining about where he stays, all the while covered in dirt and sweat, looking like the worst sort of ruffian. 

“It's an attic, if you must know, not a cellar room-,”

“Well, thank the Heavens for that…”

“-and I have a hearth.”

“Hm.”

They share a long look.

“Will you be joining me, then? Or would you rather wait for a better offer?” His voice is perhaps a little clipped as he says it.

The angel throws a dramatic little eye roll.

“No, no. I’ll come. I’ll come. Just give me a moment, will you?”

He walks over towards the humans and bids them farewell. Hands are shaken and a few last instructions are given, and he arranges to meet with them on the morrow to show them how to balance the struts. Then, he picks up his doublet, cloak and bag, and returns to Crowley’s side - the demon making a big show of impatience, at how long it’s all taken. (It wouldn’t do to look too eager to wait around on an angel, after all, even if he has just walked across London to be here).

“Did you travel here on foot?”

“Still haven’t found a horse that will take me.”

“Well, I can pop us both over, if you like?” Aziraphale offers.

It is meant in the sweetest possible way. It takes a great deal of magic to shift a body, even over a few miles, and the cost is proportionally much higher for Crowley than it is for Aziraphale. The angel only means well, the demon knows, but he still feels it rankle.

“I can manage, you know,” he grumbles. “I'm not completely powerless.” Then, as Aziraphale mumbles a protest, he mutters, “you don’t even know where you’re going, angel. Just let me do it.”

“Okay. Okay…”

You’re so strong, he thinks, eyeing the angel’s forearms as he motions towards an alleyway, where they can disappear without any humans noticing. You could break me. You could end me. Just let me do this for you. At least give me the pretence of control.

They find the alley, turn to one another. Aziraphale holds out an arm. They don’t need to touch, really, but it makes it easier. And it’s been twenty three years.

The demon reaches out with his magic into the space around them. He can feel Aziraphale strongly, the layers of him - the mortal and the immortal, and all of the bits that lace the two together. He knows how to do this. They’ve done this before. Only a handful of times, and it's always Aziraphale who has guided them, before, but the angel is showing absolutely no intention of trying to take over, today. True to his word, he lets Crowley lead.

It is a strange sensation. Not like moving. More like carving themselves out of the air. There is a sudden pull of the body, from one place, and then a great shove of it being forced into being, somewhere else. Crowley has never been quite as smooth as his counterpart, but he’s more than proficient. The air in the narrow alleyway, in St Pauls, gives a strange sucking noise as they vanish. Then, the air in the small rooms atop a narrow building, in St Giles, cracks as they fall into it.

They stumble a little as Crowley lands the spell. He’s never quite as good at an entrance as he is at an exit. Always uses a bit too much flourish.

Aziraphale rights himself, turns on the spot, looks around.

“Well, this isn’t as dire as I’d expected,” he exclaims, cheerfully.

“Too kind,” the demon grumbles, hand falling to his side. He feels a bit strange about the loss of contact - about Aziraphale not seeming to notice the contact in the first place. Maybe the importance of them touching is all on his end, he thinks. It does always seems to be him, initiating contact. Apart from that kiss, he reminds himself. The kiss had been Aziraphale’s idea. “Drink?” He asks the angel, clearing his throat.

He has liquor. Strong liquor. He’s been saving a bottle, under the loose floorboards on the far side of the room (in case his protective wards fail and his neighbours come poking around, while he’s away). Wrenching one up, he seizes the bottle by the neck and pulls it out. There is ice on the outside of it. Frozen condensation from the warmth of the room below. It’s warmer beneath the floorboards than in his apartments, the demon thinks, vaguely. Perhaps he should just stick some blankets down there and curl up in his snakeform. Hibernate for the rest of the winter.

“Bloody cold up here,” the angel is saying, almost as if he’s read his mind. “Do you mind if I light a fire?”

“Make yourself at home.”

He already has. When Crowley straightens up, grasping two cups in one hand and the bottle in the other, it is to find the ash-smeared angel on his hearth, fiddling around with some bits of wood and kindling which hadn’t been there before. A creeping fondness makes its way up the back of the demon’s spine.

 _Idiot_.

“If you’re using a match over there, I will disown you,” he drawls.

Aziraphale kneels up, turning his head, throwing half a frown.

“You know, you might try doing things the human way, once in a while. It gives you an appreciation for how difficult their lives must be.”

“I’ve got plenty appreciation, angel,” the demon grumbles, turning into the depth of the room and wandering over to the low bed. He only has two pieces of furniture. There’s a chair by the window, where he sits in the summer. And a bed by the fire, where he sits in the winter. It is a place to rest, this room, nothing more. Not a nest. Not a home. Not like the little rooms the angel had kept, against the South Gate of Antioch.

Crowley remembers those rooms in intimate detail. He remembers the window that looked out over the slope of the city. He remembers the way the sun would drop low in the winter evenings, staining the pale stone buildings pink. He remembers the earthen floor and the woven rug the angel had covered it with. He remembers the two little stools, inexpertly carved from pine. He remembers the cushions that he liked to use, to prop himself up in the corner - a throne for him and the child.

Heartbeat quickening for a moment, the demon remembers the child they saved, together. So human. Unlikely just to be alive. He remembers the warm softness of his belly and the small strength of his fingers. The perfection of each tiny crescent nail. He remembers the warmth of his mouth and the tug against his skin, and the pressure of the child’s face against him. He remembers standing by the window, looking out over the city, pretending that none of what he was experiencing was temporary. Pretending that the present stretched out, all around him, and the future spread out, far ahead; lots of days of laughing with the angel, and eating together, and watching the child grow strong, and drinking honey tea by the window as the sun dropped low.

He remembers the way Aziraphale would come up behind him, that week, and place two fingers against the base of his spine - bringing him out of his day dreams to offer him something to eat, or drink, or just to ask if he was okay. He had always been okay. He had always been so very okay, in that room, that other world.

“Just light the sodding fire,” he hisses at his friend, who throws him another petulant look, but does as he requests. With magic.

The flames roar into life as if they have been burning for hours, and Crowley slouches over to the window and drags the chair away from it, away from the grim, black view of London spread below.

“Sit,” he grunts at Aziraphale.

“I’m fine. You sit.”

“You’re the guest.”

“No really-,”

“Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale lets out a half sigh, pulls himself to his feet, moves over and sits in the chair. He takes the cup of amber liquor that Crowley offers him and watches as the demon walks over, pulls a cushion from the bed, and throws it to the floor on front of the hearth, then sits down upon it.

“I would have been fine down there, you know,” he grumbles. “Out of the two of us, I’m the one with more padding.”

“What the cushion’s for, isn’t it?” Crowley growls back. He’s in a foul mood, all of a sudden. It’s been such a long time and he’s both overwhelmed to see Aziraphale and already dreading the moment when he has to leave. He’s missing him while he’s still here, he thinks. What a miserable idiot he really is.

Problem is, he’s not sure what to do about it. He can’t tell the angel what’s going on because, while he knows his friend is very fond of him, there is no future for them together. There is no permutation of their world where Aziraphale would be able or willing to chose him in the way that Crowley wants him to. And, as much as the demon’s body is screaming for it, they can’t just fuck. Absent the explanation of his feelings, (his feelings - oh, Satan, this is so disgusting…) it would just look so much like lust. And the only thing greater than Crowley's fear of Aziraphale never speaking to him again, is his fear of what might happen to the angel, as punishment for their association.

He cannot lose him. He cannot lead him into danger. And he cannot vent all the frustration by going out and shagging someone else, because that doesn’t work. He’s tried, but it just leaves him feeling more desperately disconnected than he was, in the first place. The only way he has of semi-dealing with it all is by having a sad wank, every time they part company - and he can’t even properly look forwards to that, because it means the start of another twenty or fifty years on his own.

He is exceptionally pathetic, he thinks, even by his own low standards.

“I'm having a shit year,” he blurts out, to explain the glowering he’s been doing, into the fireplace.

Aziraphale tilts his head, considering him.

“I’m sorry about that, dear boy. Why so?”

“Lots of reasons. Mostly, it’s just been a bit shit. You know what it’s like when you’re having a shit day? Nothing going right, everything piling up…”

“Yes, I know the feeling.”

“Yeah, well it’s been like that, only longer.”

They sit in silence, for a while.

The angel takes a sip of the liquor and makes an appreciative sound. He asks the name. Crowley tells him.

They sit a bit longer. 

“The plague was one of my lot,” the demon eventually volunteers. “Was supposed to be a scare, but it got out of hand. Nobody consulted me, first. They didn’t take into account the population density and ended up killing all the people they just wanted to make miserable. All the humans bloody died before they had time to turn away from God. Sloppy, stupid work. Ruined most of what I had going on, in these parts. Now, I’m behind on quotas and I have to deal with Dagon strutting around like they’ve invented suffering.”

“I’m sorry, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, softly.

The demon grinds his teeth a little, stares at the flames.

“Shitty year… shitty demons…”

They sit in silence for another few minutes. Aziraphale finishes his drink and reaches over to pour himself another, then reaches out to pour Crowley one, too. Then he sets the bottle down and leans forwards slightly in his chair.

“Can you come over here, for a second?”

The demon looks over. Blinks.

“Why?” It hadn’t meant to come out as suspicious, but it does.

“I want to try something. It works on humans.”

“What works on humans?”

“Just come here.”

The angel beckons to the floor, next to his left foot.

Nervously, Crowley makes his way over, kneels just on front of the angel, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of him, but not quite close enough to brush.

“Can I touch you?” Aziraphale asks.

“Uh, yes… why?”

“Okay, sit this way around, then. Back to me.”

He does, eyes fixed on the fire in the grate, heart beating incredibly fast beneath his ribs.

For the first few seconds, nothing happens. He hears the soft clink of Aziraphale setting his glass down on the floor beside him but does not turn around. Then the angel reaches out and places the tips of his fingers lightly against the crown of his head.

The demon flinches, slightly.

“What are you-,”

“Crowley, if you’re uncomfortable, I’ll stop, but if not then please hush…” Aziraphale’s voice is soft, soothing. His fingertips are oddly soothing, too, sliding forwards then finding the edge of his hairline, smoothing out the creases over the top of his forehead. “Just relax.”

“What are you doing?” The demon asks again, voice small, after a couple of seconds has passed.

The angel’s fingertips have made gentle circles back, towards his hair again. They feel nice against his temple. Too nice. It’s sending little shivers across him, leaving the skin all prickly.

“Sometimes, a bit of touch just helps," the angel says, softly. "It’s okay. I won’t hurt you… Just try and relax. You trust me, don’t you?”

To the Earth and back, Crowley thinks, feeling his shoulder muscles trembling with tension as he brushes Aziraphale’s leg. As if he could relax while someone was touching him like this, though.As if he could relax when someone was choosing to touch him like this. Choosing to touch him. Knowing what he is. Knowing what he has done.

“You can lean against me, if you like,” the angel says, almost shyly. There’s a thing in his voice like there was all those Christmases ago, when he had pointed out the mistletoe in the stairwell, at that palace.

The palace still stands, the demon thinks, leaning tentatively back against his counterpart’s knee. It’s about a dozen miles southwest of where they sit, in this tiny room, in this squalid building, in the darkest, seediest bit of London. It will be full of nobles and Lords tonight, like it had been so many Christmases ago. It will be bedecked in gold and finery, crystal and garlands. It will be filled with all finest wine and food and musicians the real has to offer. But they won’t have an angel, Crowley thinks. He has the only angel in London, sliding fingers through his hair.

As the tips of them push in, the demon cannot help but push back up into them. He knows he should resist, should pull away. Every part of him is screaming that he should not be allowed this, does not deserve this, but Aziraphale’s touch is careful, and diligent, and so very intentional. And he’s caving, under it.

“Why are you doing this?” He asks, and he’s shaken to hear the rasp in his voice as he speaks.

The fire crackles a few times before Aziraphale answers.

“I want to make you feel good.”

Not ‘I want you to feel good’. There is a pronoun there. First-person singular nominative. He wanted to make him feel good. It was not enough that Crowley felt good, himself. Aziraphale wanted to be the one to make it happen.

The demon swallows. His heartbeat is still very fast and loud, inside his ears, but his body is beginning to soften against the angel. It’s giving in, shoulder pressing into the plush inside of Aziraphale’s knee, side resting against his calf. The angel’s fingers are warm, as they circle through the front of his hair. He keeps his movements slow, steady, predictable, and Crowley’s muscles continue to relax, joints loosening. Then, Aziraphale presses his thumbs down and drags them along the crest of his head and the demon loses it entirely.

He lets out an involuntary sigh, eyelids slipping closed. It’s too good. The room is warm, and the angel's leg is strong against him, his fingers applying the perfect amount of friction. And Crowley is lost. His head tilts back. His mouth opens. He lets his friend guide their movements, venturing ever backwards - all the way down to the base of his skull and up to the forehead again. Then, Aziraphale tips him back so that his throat is exposed, and presses fingers against his temple, his forehead, along the front of his ear. Then back up to his hair and he repeats the whole thing.

By the fifth repetition, Crowley has flopped over one leg to slump happily between his counterpart's knees, head hanging back into the angel’s hands. His eyelids are still closed and he doesn’t open them when Aziraphale gently lies his head on his knee and turns his fingers to the length of his hair, instead, picking free the tangles.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Crowley murmurs, through a throat that feels almost incapable of human speech, past a tongue which has forked along its centre. There are hisses in his words - sibilant ‘sss’s that permeate even the vowels. He would feel embarrassed by them, normally, but not right now.

There is freedom in being exposed, like this.

“I had a friend, about sixty years ago, who taught me,” Aziraphale answers his question. "Her mother worked for a Lady, who often had pains in his jaw and neck. This helped.”

“It'sss good…”

The demon’s hand is going slightly to sleep, the wrist locked out under his weight, but he cannot bring himself to care. His shoulder is pressed into Aziraphale and his cheek is resting against Aziraphale and Aziraphale is running fingers through his hair and he’s so glad that he’s not remembered to cut it in years.

“I’m glad,” the angel says, softly.

“Alwaysss found it weird how ssensation affectsss us…” the demon slurs, absently, digging the ends of his slightly numb fingertips into the wooden boards beneath his hand.

“Well, our bodies are a part of us,” Aziraphale muses back. His tone is thoughtful, unhurried, comfortable. It feels so very comfortable, sitting there, being gently stroked, gently groomed, talking with one another. It feels normal. As if they’ve been doing this for years. “We are souls, wrapped in flesh, just as humans are. The only difference, really, is that their souls are mortal - the attachment to their body permanent.”

The demon’s eyelids part slightly.

He has never thought about it like that, before.

Lifting his head, he turns his chin to look up at Aziraphale. Upon meeting his eyes, the angel flushes a little, looking suddenly shy. Dropping his gaze, he focusses the fingers that are still toying with the demon’s hair. He picks a little at a knot, there.

“Our souls may be the source of our powers,” he continues, smoothing a few of Crowley's long red strands flat, “but it is our bodies that channel that power - that limit how much is available to us, here on Earth. Ergo, our bodies are part of what defines us. Even if only in this dimension.”

“So, you reckon what we feel with them is important?”

“Do you disagree?” Aziraphale’s eyes are still fixed down, watching his fingers work in the firelight. They appear deep blue-grey, tonight, shot with flecks of green. “You said it yourself, Crowley, what our bodies feel affects us. And we feel affects them, in turn. When we feel amusement, our bodies smile. When we are sad, our bodies cry. When the sun warms our skin, or when we taste something good, or when we touch one another… our souls taste pleasure.” His eyes lift up, a little nervously. Their pupils are dilated very wide, in the dark. Tentatively, the angel reaches his hand up to brush some hair from the demons cheek, tucking it gently behind an ear. “What we feel here is real,” he says, softly.

More real than anything I’ve ever felt, Crowley thinks, staring into the dark pits at the centre of his friend’s blue-green eyes.

The angel’s fingers have dropped, to linger near his shoulder, and the skin there is tingling in response. Crowley swallows. He knows he’s staring. He knows he should look away, but his eyes feel all caught up in that magnetic pull that’s always existed between them. The demon had used to think it was the opposition of their powers. Then, he had thought it must be the sensation of his power being cancelled out by Aziraphale’s, whenever they were in proximity. Now, he thinks is might be something far, far simpler than any of that. Thinks it might be nothing to do with them being an angel and a demon, at all - that it might be something far more to do with them being just two souls, wrapped in flesh.

_What we feel here is real._

_What do you mean by that, angel? Do you have any idea how your words sound, to me?_

Crowley has never been able to wrap his tongue around language, like Aziraphale can. He’s never been good at riddles, or metaphors. They all get jammed up, trying to leave his brain, and come out a shadow of what he intended. He can handle directness, though.

“Sometimes it can be a lot,” he says, feeling his body clench with the intensity of the words. “All of the feeling…”

Aziraphale’s eyes remain fixed on his. Very blue.

“I know.”

“Sometimes, I think I’d like to feel less.”

A little nod. “I can understand that, too.”

“It’s just always…” Crowley pauses, feeling the weight of his words, then pushes forwards. “It’s a lot, this world. Beautiful, but sometimes really terrible, too. You’re always there, though, so that helps.” Something twists inside him, words nearly tripping on the anticipation of being heard out loud. “You make me feel good.”

There’s a long silence.

Aziraphale bites his lip in a way that looks painful.

“You make me feel good too, Crowley,” he whispers back, eventually.

It’s very nearly what they want to say to one another - but still worlds away.

Lost in the relief of pushing his thoughts out as sound, and not having them rejected outright, the demon sits and watches the angel - watches him pull at the inside of his lower lip, with his perfectly straight teeth. Aziraphale looks vaguely worried. His brow is furrowed, his pupils very large in their sea of blue and green. Crowley can feel the weight of the decision that’s happening inside of him.

After a good minute, his counterpart takes a steadying breath and asks, gently;

“Can I stay here, tonight?”

_A thousand times, yes._

“Sure,” he replies, his voice normal, despite the tightening of his heart. “You can take the bed. I don’t mind sleeping by the fire.”

“You don’t have to. I don’t mind sharing. I’ll probably sit up and read, anyway. I just-,” he gives a little shrug. Crowley sees that his cheeks have gone very red. “I don’t fancy being alone.”

The demon stares up at him.

The words are so very close to those he had used to coax Aziraphale into that narrow bed, in Antioch. No, angel, don’t worry about it. I don’t mind sharing. You can keep me warm. It will be nice not to be cold, for a change. And they had not been alone, that night. Their mouths had kept each other company, skin pressed against skin. The thought of it drives a shiver of electricity up, from between his thighs, right into the spine of him.

"You're welcome here," he says, softly.

_You are always welcome here, angel._

"Thank you,"

The thank you is small, almost silent, but it means the world - the sincerity of it, the grateful little tilt of Aziraphale's brow.

.

The angel stays in the demon’s rooms that evening and they share the space as if it's something they have always done, comfortable in one another's presence. They drink their way through the rest of Crowley's whiskey and the angel miracles the bottles he has stashed under the floorboards into something drinkable - makes beauty out of stolen pirate rum, strong enough to turn a mortal blind.

The demons head is distinctly fuzzy by the time a clock tower strikes midnight and he realises he’s tired. He does not want the evening to end. Does not want to cut short their gentle reminiscing about Christmases past. He's about to stretch into his powers, free himself from the need for sleep, with magic, but the angel notices one yawn to many and tells him to go to bed. Tells him to enjoy a good rest and he’ll just read by the fire, for a while.

“Go to bed," Aziraphale says - and Crowley has always liked that feeling of falling asleep in Aziraphale's company, of being wrapped in an angel's protection, so he does.

He kicks off shoes and peels off socks, breeches and doublet, and slips into his bed, burying himself under woollen blankets and quilt. Belly against the sheets, golden eyes peering out into the room, he wonders if he looks like a snake in the grass. Wonders if his friend has to overcome some thrill of fear or disgust, to look over at him.

Aziraphale does not let the emotion show, if he does. As he passes the bed, going about his ablutions - stoking the fire, piling a few logs on, miracling the worst of the ash from his clothes - his expression holds only fondness.

Crowley watches him back, under half-closed eyelids, feeling the same. There is a comfort in seeing the domestic moments that they do not normally share with one another; watching the angel thread his fingers through his hair, sorting out the worst of the tangles; watching him wash his hands and face, with a damp cloth; watching him remove his boots and place them near the fire, so that they are warm for the morning.

Miracling a woollen blanket from nothing, the angel wraps it around his shoulders and sits back down in the chair by the hearth, tucking his stockinged feet underneath him. He looks perfectly angelic, Crowley thinks, backlit by golden light. Perfectly Aziraphale.

Belly down on the bed, Crowley watches his friend for at least half an hour, turning pages slowly in the firelight. He admires the effect of the backdrop; the way the golden glow catches in his hair, painting the edges of it in a halo, the way the soft light sharpens the angles of his face. The proud line of a cheekbone. The slight upturn of his nose.

He dozes off watching him. Stirring only slightly as the angel stands, to stoke the fire or help himself to a glass of water. He is so comfortable that he does not open his eyes when Aziraphale pads over to the bed and takes the blanket from around his own shoulders, adding it to the two over the demon’s back.

“Dream only good dreams,” Crowley hears him whisper, somewhere above, and his body warms through - more so than it could have been warmed by any blanket.

“Night, angel,” he mumbles back.

A hand rests on the top of his head, for a moment, thumb stroking along the curve of his skull. Then, there is the noise of someone leaning in, and he feels the lightest brush of a kiss, against his hair.

“Goodnight, Crowley,” his angel whispers. Then, he is padding away again, back to the chair by the fire and his book.


	8. Tynemouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a bit more explicit than previous chapters, but hopefully not ooc. Apologies about the missed deadlines... had a bit too much fun on NYE! Happy New Year, all. :) C.

_1803_

They do this thing, now, flitting in and out of one another’s lives for purely social reasons. Aziraphale is not sure when it started - when they stopped having to have excuses to see one another. One day, Crowley just appeared at the door of his new bookshop and invited himself in for a drink, and they started meeting up regularly.

They try to be careful. The world moves so fast, these days, and there are often other angels and demons passing though their little territories. It would be a disaster, if anyone were to catch them, but they keep an eye on things and, thankfully, nobody seems to pay either of them too much mind. There are advantages to seniority, after all. While Aziraphale is sure his superiors disapprove of his lackadaisical approach to smiting evil, he has been on Earth for a jolly long time. He’s an old hand, his reports are always full and detailed, and they trust him. Aziraphale knows it is prideful, but he does tend to think of Earth as his place. His project. 

If he could make it last forever, he would. 

The end is something that bothers the Principality increasingly, these days. He cannot help but think, as he sees the pace of life on Earth speed up, sees the planet fill up, sees the humans come up with even more weird and wonderful inventions, that the end must be coming. It’s hard to see how things can go on as they are, with so many people crawling over the surface of the planet, with the world bursting at the seams - but, inevitably, as soon as Aziraphale thinks this, the humans immediately come up with something which allows them to feed larger numbers, and survive in stranger places, and live a little longer. They change the world to fit their needs. They’re clever, Her humans. 

His demon is clever, too. Clever, clever Crowley with his clever eyes, and his clever tongue. He’s been cleverly wiling around the country for the best part of the nineteenth century, now, and Aziraphale has been hard put to thwart him. Clever, clever boy. 

He’s been very prolific. He seems to be enjoying himself more than previous centuries, and it is coming across in his work. Aziraphale never has to travel far, now, to find signs of the demon. There are plenty of Hellish things, of course - things his counterpart been sent to accomplish for his masters. Things like tempting a bishop to lust, or a King to greed. Those things, Aziraphale always does his best to thwart. But there are also lots of Crowley things, too. Things like glueing coins to the pavement, and causing entire cities to temporarily misplace their left shoes. Things like instigating storms that cripple sea trade for weeks and leave sailors stranded in ports filled with alcohol and women. Chaos, rather than destruction. Nothing so terrible as what the humans do to one another. 

Because the humans are brilliant and clever, but they can also be cruel. They wage wars against one another on behalf of gods and resources and money, as they have always done. But they have developed new and even more arbitrary distinctions, as time goes along. There are more gods, more political tension, more resources, and family ties that separate them than ever before. It is as if the more they create, the more there is to set them apart. 

Aziraphale does his best to bridge gaps. Crowley does his best to exploit them. They continue on, as they always have done, but they also meet up in between tasks. 

They meet in restaurants, and inns, and coffee shops. They meet and they talk of the world and the humans and their assigned tasks. They eat and drink and laugh. And the angel memorises the details of the demon’s face, over a shared bottle of wine. 

Today, they meet on the seafront of a little town on the eastern coast of England. It is wild and blustery, and the seasonal trappings of the little houses are being whipped around in the wind. It’s cheerful, despite the cold, the angel thinks. There are carriages waiting outside the big white houses, down by the bay. There are candles flickering in the windows, great pine trees inside, hung with glass baubles, and candles, and trinkets. Families are gathered and ivy and mistletoe are hung in garlands all around. The windows glow gold against the gloom of the afternoon. 

Christmas has become a time for festivity, throughout the land. Throughout many lands, in fact. It is odd, thinking back on that first night, more than two thousand years ago - that this should be the way people choose to remember icy winds and the distant screams of childbirth - that they should remember sacrifice with glittering lights and trees cut down, in pagan tradition. Humans are endlessly odd, the angel thinks, as he steps out into the cold afternoon air. 

Crowley is waiting for him at the end of a little row of shops, dressed in a long dark coat and dark breeches, over a dark waistcoat. The only colour in his ensemble comes from a tiny sliver of red necktie, peeking out from under the collar of his high necked jacket. The hat perched on the top of his head makes him appear even taller than he is - the boots that wrap his calves, even lankier. There’s a restlessness to him as he lounges against a lamppost, watching Aziraphale approach. A strange expectation. 

The angel can feel the long pupils of his eyes hovering on him, as he draws near, though his friend’s tinted glasses shield them from view. The glasses are a bit unnecessary, the angel thinks. It is only three o clock, but the season and the clouds make it practically twilight. Certainly, it is dark enough that anyone passing would not notice yellow irises, shrunk to human size, but the demon clearly does not want to take the risk. The glasses stay on as Aziraphale reaches his side and holds out a hand. 

They grasp. They shake. 

Aziraphale wonders what it would be like to be able to greet Crowley as if he were a friend, not a counterpart. There would be something wonderful in being able to stride up to the demon and draw him into an embrace, wrap their arms around one another, clap his hand across Crowley’s back and crush their chests together - hold on, for a moment, and say that he’s missed him. It would be unbearably lovely to feel the tightness of somebody else’s arms around him, for a while. 

He thinks not infrequently about Crowley’s arms around him. It’s a bit of a preoccupation, actually. These last hundred years, he’s thought about it more often than during the last six thousand put together. Crowley, with his long arms and his wide shoulders, and that sharp collarbone that marks out the delicate slope of his neck. And those clever eyes, and that clever mouth. 

“It’s vile weather, angel,” that clever mouth sneers at him, today, lip curling to show the tips of slightly too-sharp teeth. Demon mouth, the angel thinks, eyes traveling over the rest of his friend’s handsome face. “If you think I’m walking anywhere in this, you’re having a laugh.” 

Crowley looks better fed than he did last time they met. The nineteenth century seems to be agreeing with him. He has finally yielded to current fashion and cropped his wild tresses of hair short. Bright auburn waves are brushed forwards, under his hat. The angel can see some of them dancing across his forehead, in the wind. 

“Come now,” he beams up at his counterpart. “It's brisk, at worst. The air will do us good.”

The demon raises an eyebrow, looking down.

There are four inches between them in height. They measured once, a long time ago. They have not measured since - though Crowley has been in and out of other bodies and genders. He sheds his skin so easily, the angel marvels. His eyes always hover at that same point, though. Just a hand’s breadth above Aziraphale's. His mouth just close enough to reach, should the angel tilt his head back and stand up on the balls of his feet. 

That’s another preoccupation. A preoccupation he does not normally indulge in, under normal circumstances. His thoughts about Crowley’s clever mouth, engaged in anything other than wiling and tempting and conversation, are reserved for the darkest, most private moments of the night. Moments when Aziraphale has taken some time away from his Heavenly tasks and is indulging in a bit of rest, to sustain his soul - moments when he’s curled up in some comfortable bed, with only his hand and his memories for company. Only then does he allow himself to think of his friend’s mouth and how it feels against his. And how it might feel against other parts of him. 

He doesn’t allow himself to think of such things during the day. Not in the bookshop. Not while he’s out, performing miracles. There are lines to be observed. Crowley is fascinating and beautiful and easily the most rewarding part of his life, on earth, but he is a demon. And the scope of their friendship should never infringe on Aziraphale's work. Therein lies disaster. 

They are not here on work, this afternoon, however. This afternoon will be one of those strange moments they share, when they have sought one another out simply for the sake of company. There will be no pretence of work, tonight. And it is Christmas. Aziraphale knows that he can get away with an awful lot, under the guise of Christmas. Friends meet up, at Christmas. They dance together, and kiss under the mistletoe, and sometimes stay over, at Christmas. Sometimes, they exchange gifts. Or, rather, the demon offers gifts. The angel has never given him anything in return, before. He thinks he might, tonight.

_Is it more of a sin, if it’s premeditated?_

“Is this where you're staying, then?” He asks Crowley, looking up at the inn. 

The demon shakes his head. 

“Nah. Just popped over from Manchester. It’s coming along beautifully.” 

“Yes, I’ve heard.” Aziraphale tries to look disapproving of the demon’s work. Maybe he pulls it off. Crowley’s smile doesn’t give anything away. “Come on," he says, "let’s walk down, past the bay. There’s a little pub that I like.”

They go to the little pub, set in the curve of the bay, up atop the high cliffs. They are freezing cold by the time they arrive. Their cheeks and ear tips are red, and Crowley is whinging to high heaven. They have both had to remove their hats, because of the wind, and the demon’s red hair lies wild, around his face. 

It is unusual, to see it so short, so un-styled. The look is of the times, however. Men these days are not doing much more than a little wax through their locks - a return to the natural. It’s probably the first time in a thousand years that Aziraphale has looked nearly as fashionable as his counterpart. (Even if it is unintentional). 

He tells Crowley so, as they take seats across from one another at a little table, in the corner of the bar. 

“Shame your coat is twenty years late to the party,” the demon replies, leaning back in his chair and pushing his boots forwards. He manages to sit more impudently than anyone Aziraphale has ever encountered. There is something defiant in his lines - in the way his legs spread, the sharp edges of knees pointing out into the room. 

_Look at me. Fuck the rest, look at me._

His presence is more forceful than a human’s. He demands attention. 

“Where were you, then, before Manchester?” The angel asks, hailing the boy behind the bar and ordering them drinks. He knows what his friend likes without asking. Chooses for him. It’s a little game. They do the opposite, sometimes, when they go out to eat. Crowley, ordering for the pair of them, sitting back to watch Aziraphale eat it, alone.

“Well, I went to Malta for a bit,” the demon yawns, rubs his hand over his hair, fingers sorting through his untidy hair. “Thawed myself out, sewed a bit of political strife. Then, I was back up north. Edinburgh, then Glasgow… did the rounds of the central belt and then headed down, along the west coast. Have some coal mining nonsense to attend to next week, just outside Cardiff.” 

“You’re not collapsing anything I hope,” Aziraphale mutters, reproachfully. 

Crowley rolls his eyes. 

“What in Satan’s name would the point be of killing lots of people in what their families and friends would only interpret as an ‘ _act of God_ ’.” He marks out the implied quotation marks with his fingers, in the air. “I’m trying to disillusion people, not frighten them into piety.”

“What was that about?” The angel frowns, mimicking the motion of the demon’s hands. 

“What? This?” He does the wiggly thing again, with his fingers. 

“Yes, that.” 

“Indicates satire, sarcasm, or euphemism,” he grins, his being indignant over themining comment all forgotten. “It’s annoying, isn’t it? I’m going to try and get it going.”

“How is that possibly a justifiable use of your time?”

“It’s just a little pet project… You know, rile the people up.” The demon throws a grin. “Nobody ever said all of what I do I needs to be useful. Just told me to get up here and ‘ _make a little trouble_ ’.” He does the hand thing again, then slouches back in his chair, somehow managing to push his legs out at completely different angles to where they had been, before. 

One of his feet nudges in between the angel’s, the inside of their boots brushing. 

You are a flirt, the angel thinks, looking over at his friend. You are a beautiful, messy flirt, and I enjoy every second of you. 

The drinks arrive. 

They drink and talk about every thing and nothing. They talk about Manchester and the demon’s work there. Then they talk about the coal mines and the textile mills, and the conditions for the poor in the rapidly industrialising cities. They talk about the little green villages, around the great smokey darkness of London - and the angel’s trials, working with a young poet, in one of them.This moves them onto classical literature, then onto music, and the demon laments that he could possibly be on speaking terms with someone who still thinks Mozart is the height of fashion. 

“But it does make this easier…” he says, trailing off, reaching around in his jacket for something.

Aziraphale frowns. 

“What?” 

“Gifts.” The demon pulls out a narrow leather folder and drops it on the table, in front of him. “Here you are, angel,” he grunts, leaning back to fold his arms across his chest. “Merry Christmas! Another piece of nonsense for you…” 

“Oh!” 

The angel’s heart beats a little faster. 

There is something symbolic in the way Crowley buys him gifts. They feel like little offerings, in place of the offerings he wishes to make. In place of things he has offered, in the past, which they both know he really shouldn’t offer again. 

“Thank you, Crowley,” the angel says, softly. His hand slides out. He opens the folder, taking his time, savouring the moment. He can feel the demon’s eyes, fixed on him through the dark tint of his glasses. 

Inside the folder is a piece of sheet music, marked and annotated by the composer. It’s a familiar piece, something Aziraphale can remember from a night nearly a hundred years ago. 

He can remember sitting in a narrow boat, on the Thames; Crowley’s thigh pressed up against his, arm lying very close, over the back of the barge. Musicians had been playing to the King’s household, further up the river. Moored behind the likes of nobles and Dukes, the angel and the demon had let the river rock their boat and listened. It had been beautiful. And, towards the end of the night, Crowley had let his hand wander over, let fingers brush the back of the angel’s shoulder - a soft, intermittent contact. 

It feels like there is something pulling them into some central point, sometimes. Something pulling their souls into approximation, leaving their bodies no choice but to helplessly follow. Something smothering all the reasons that they should not allow themselves to touch. 

“Water music,” Aziraphale murmurs, eyes tracing over the markings on the paper. “I remember this.”

“That night, on the Thames.”

“Yes...  The king was there. There were fireworks.”

“And you were terrible at steering and knocked the Duke of Norfolk right out of his boat.” A grin is pulling at the demon’s lips when the angel looks up. 

Aziraphale feels his cheeks flush. 

“I remember a minor boating incident,” he equivocates.

“He was so pissed!”

“Yes, the language was rather a lot.”

Crowley chuckles, pushing himself a little further back into his seat, and looks away, out the window, taking another sip of wine. 

Aziraphale feels a surge of emotion pull at the deep places inside of him. Fear and longing. Need and amusement. 

It is so difficult to name this thing between them. They are not the same, so it is impossible to equate their emotions. Crowley’s feelings come from personal experience. For Aziraphale, who can feel the ever present weight of God’s love - and the love of every creature on this planet - personal connection is a little harder to interpret. 

“Thank you,” he tells the demon, running a thumb over the soft smoothness of the sheet music - a perfect gift, chosen just for him. Shyly, he looks up at his counterpart’s face, lit by candlelight in the small pub. The fire makes the shadow of Crowley’s cheekbone very dark, the colour of his lips very red. Evergreen garlands, strung up over the back of the booth, contrast beautifully with his hair. He’s always been beautiful, the angel thinks. “I didn’t get you anything,” he tells the demon, bluntly.

“Ah, _quelle surprise!”_ Crowley tilts his head, a sliver of yellow iris briefly visible over the rim of his glasses. There is a little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Never mind, angel,” he says. “One day, eh?” 

It’s a part of their patter. Their little joke. Their excuse for spending far more Christmases together than they do any other day of the year. 

“Yes, one day,” the angel smiles. _Maybe tonight, if he’s feeling bold enough_. “I have a fire to sleep by, in the meantime.” 

Crowley watches him closely, for a few seconds, then gives a nod and takes another deep draught of his drink. Lifting a hand towards the bar, he orders them another round and turns his eyes back to the small window, showing the view of the seascape behind the pub. 

“Sounds good, angel. I could be tempted by a fire.” 

.

They drink until the pub closes - early because of the season - and spill out, onto the seafront. They walk along the front of grand houses, past other perambulating people of Christmas day, then their footsteps take them to the cliffs and the narrow path that leads down, along the beach. They’ve drank two bottles of wine between them, by this point, and the angel can feel the rush of it, through his body. It makes him feel brave, bold. It makes him follow when Crowley takes the path towards the sea, even if the beach is a narrow strip, below, consumed by an inward tide.

Darkness is folded in around them as they reach the sand. Night approaches. The clouds overhead are threateningly dark. The sea is threateningly wild. Stepping onto the beach, the right of the angel’s vision is filled right up with cliff, the left of it by a wide expanse of water. The wind is whipping it into white crested waves; great, powerful things, that approach the coast with fury, throwing themselves against the sand, breaking in rushes of sound and spray. 

Crowley walks right out, towards them, throwing a look back at Aziraphale as if to dare him to follow. 

“It’s bloody cold,” he shouts over, as the waves retreat and he takes a few experimental steps after them, into the wet sand of the shoreline. “Fuck!” His feet sink enough to let water into his boots, and he does a little side step, and throws a grin of delight back at the angel. "You should come in!"

Aziraphale shakes his head. 

He is smiling, absently - something he tends to do, around Crowley. He probably looks very silly when he does it, he thinks. It’s a silly reaction, really. A human thing. Definitely not an angel thing. But, then, he’s not much of an angel tonight, he reminds himself. He’s here on his own time, with his own intentions.

Crowley follows the next wave right out, then steps quickly back in, walking in a hasty arc back up to the dry sand. His path takes him up to meet Aziraphale who has been walking slowly along the dry section of beach. 

“You’ll freeze your feet off,” the angel admonishes, as he arrives. 

Crowley gives a shake of the head, an affected little movement. 

“Don’t need feet. Survived perfectly well without feet for ages.”

_Snake. Demon. Other._

Aziraphale wonders if his counterpart is reminding him on purpose - wonders if he has sensed the need in the air and is trying to put some distance between them. But, if that is Crowley’s intent, then he is doing a shit job of it. His eyes are full of interest as they fix on the angel’s. He’s lost the glasses at some point - perhaps stuck them in his pocket as they left the boardwalk, for the beach. His golden irises are spread nearly across the width of his eyes, black pupils wide in the low light. A study in contrast.

“You ever swum in the North sea?” He asks, abruptly.

Around them, everything is dark. The sea is dark. The cliffs are dark. The sand is dark and the sky, overhead, is purple and inky blue, the stars not visible through the clouds. In the distance, the lights of the town are glowing, golden pinpricks - a dozen little warm spots along the top of the cliffs. There is something encouraging about seeing warm golden lights at night, the angel thinks, eyes hovering on the demon. It always felt a bit like coming in from the cold. Coming home. 

“No,” Aziraphale answers his friend, sparing the tumultuous sea a glance. It’s thrashing dark waves look uninviting, fearsome, terribly large. “Don’t think I’d care to try, tonight.”

“It’s not like Cyprus. You remember Cyprus, angel?”

“Yes.” Vividly. “The beaches were warm, that summer.”

“The water was, too. Could swim for hours, out there. I used to dive right down to the bottom and explore the old shipwrecks. Terrified the fishermen. They thought I’d never come back up.”

“I imagine not having to breathe helped your cause.”

“Yes.” Crowley’s eyes are filling his. “This sea is not like that sea, though. It’s a lot rougher.”

“And a lot colder.” 

“I like the feel of it, though. Water on skin. It’s one of the better things about this world.”

“Yes.” _One of them._

Crowley’s shoulder moves, slightly. His fingers are stretching forwards, to brush the inside of the angel’s wrist. The contact should make Aziraphale flinch, but it doesn’t.

“Come on. Come feel the water.”

“Crowley…”

“Come on.”

“Okay.”

He follows the demon down to the edge of the sea, watches the wave roll in, foam forming bubbles of the sand, sending little grains of it up in flurries. The water surges right up to the edge of their toes, then the leading edge disappears into nothing, soaking down into the earth, and the greater body of the water is sucked back out again - to join the next wave. They follow it. A step forwards into the space, a step back against its forceful entry. Out then back, together. 

They mistime the fifth wave, and the angel lets out an involuntary yelp as water rushes into his shoes. It is icy, no more than a handful of degrees above freezing. He gasps at the sensation as Crowley gives a bark of laughter and the pair of them beat a hasty retreat, up the sand, to safety. 

“That was -,” the angel gives a shiver, “absolutely freezing!”

The demon is still laughing, golden eyes flashing in the darkness. 

“Of course it is, you prat. It’s midwinter, it’s supposed to be freezing!”

“Heaven’s sake, Crowley… Good Lord… _Fuck_!”

The demon dissolves into laughter, once more. 

They wander further along the beach, something a little purposeful about it - about the way Crowley keeps letting their shoulder’s bump, keeps letting himself stumble into the angel’s side. There’s something intentional about the way Aziraphale keeps allowing it to happen, keeps following him down, within reach of the icy water. 

They are freezing by the time they reach the end of the beach and climb the narrow wooden stairs, to reach the level of the road. Their trousers are soaked by the surf, their jackets by the sea spray. There is sand coated up to mid-calf on both their boots, but they are still laughing as they approach the little inn, on the headland. 

Aziraphale turns, as they reach the glow of its golden lights. 

“Will you come up?”

The mirth fades, in his friend’s eyes, replaced by something slightly hungry. And, if Aziraphale thought Crowley might be aware of his intentions, before, his suspicions redouble now. 

Tilting his head back, Crowley takes a minute to look up at the inn. Looks at the brick face and the white painted windows, decorated by garlands and candles. The place looks warm and inviting. What Aziraphale is offering is warm and inviting. It is not a hard decision, on paper. But there is a lot about the two of them that you cannot see from the surface. 

On the surface, they look like two windswept human men, clothes wet with saltwater, skin a little pink from the cold. They look like any two friends, stumbling back after an evening of frivolity. They look like the young men who stumble home, together, in the secret spaces of cities around the world. They look like love. 

But they are not human. They are an angel and a demon. And Aziraphale is not sure that either of them can accept or give love in the way that they want to share it. They are not of this Earth. And there are untold number of reasons that they should not pretend to be. 

He knows he shouldn’t do this. He is so much better than this. But need has built in him to a point where he is no longer making decisions based on logic. He wants more. He thinks his friend might, too. 

“Come up,” he presses. “It’s cold and it’s Christmas.” 

Crowley’s eyes slide back down, onto his. There is something a little imploring in them, something a little warning. Something a little _‘don’t push this, if you’re not serious’_. 

“Are you asking me in for a drink, or in for the night?” he eventually asks, voice measured. 

“The night,” Aziraphale answers, somehow managing to meet his gaze. “You have nowhere to stay, after all - and I owe you a rest by my fire, on account of not getting you a gift. I’ve only got one bed, but we can always share. That is, if you don’t mind.” 

“I don’t mind.” 

“I can keep you warm.” Aziraphale gives a shadow of a hopeful smile. “You’re always so cold.”

“S’pose I am, a bit…” They stare at one another for a long moment, then Crowley nods and looks back up, at the building. “Yeah, angel. I’ll stay.” 

“Right.” He smiles. His heart does something worrying in his chest. “Excellent.”

.

They go inside and Aziraphale greets the landlord, who miraculously does not question Crowley’s presence. They talk for a few minutes, commenting on the attributes of the day and exchanging seasonal greetings, then the angel bids him goodnight and takes his key. 

Leaving the front desk, he leads Crowley back, along a narrow corridor and up a narrow stair to a slightly uneven landing, where he lets them into the room he has been occupying the last two nights. It is a nice room, spacious and square, with a small study of to one side and a sink to wash up in. A large bed occupies a third of the living space and a copper tub and armchair take up the rest - sitting over by the hearth, behind a roughly carved and painted wooden screen. By some miracle, the fire that the servants lit an hour ago, (expecting the angel to return at his usual five o’ clock), is still roaring happily in the grate. 

They have slept in many spaces, over the past six thousand years, but those spaces have usually belonged to one of them, or the other. Tonight, they meet on neutral territory - an intentional move, on the angel’s part. This room, with its red walls and the slightly shabby carpet, is as unassuming and far from either of their normal habitats as anybody could hope to find them. It is comfortable, and warm, but it has that dreamlike quality that exists in places that life does not usually take a person. Something a bit out of reality. It is decidedly not them and, therefore, perfect. 

Crowley steps into the room, past the angel, running his hand absentmindedly through his hair as he takes it all in.

Feeling a rush of fondness for his friend’s nervous habits, Aziraphale gently closes and locks the door behind them, setting the key on a low table to the side. 

He attends to the wards, next - setting up protective magics that will shield the place from unwanted attention and warn them if anyone comes near. He performs them quickly, passing his hand once over the lintel, then lying it flat against the wall to seal the spell. His palm warms the wood. 

As he finishes, binding it all in place, he hears Crowley stop pacing and turns around.

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear boy,” he shakes his head, remembering his manners. “I should have asked. Would you like to add something of your own?” He motions towards the door. “Can’t be nice to feel trapped in a place. I could take this down and we could do it again, if you-,”

“Did you make it strong?” Crowley cuts him off, gently. 

Aziraphale blinks.

“Well, yes.” 

“That’s fine, then.” They stand opposite one another, the demon strangely still - strangely calm for a creature who usually spends most of his time fidgeting. “So long as it keeps us safe, I’m happy. You’re more powerful than I am, and I trust you.”

The angel’s cheeks flush brightest red. 

“Oh,” his skin is burning, right up to the tips of his ears. There will be no way to explain this blush on the cold. Not with the fire burning merrily in the grate. Not with the fire in Crowley’s eyes, from across the room. “Right. Well, that’s settled, then... Okay…” 

They watch one another carefully. Thirty seconds of limbo. 

“You’re going to have to come a lot closer if you want anything from me, angel,” the demon says, softly, into the silence. 

Aziraphale doesn’t pretend not to understand. 

Gathering all of his remaining boldness, he walks over to the demon’s side and stands just within reach. A little closer than he would normally stand. 

“Better?” 

“Better.” Crowley's voice is almost a whisper, his pupils so large that Aziraphale can see his own reflection. “Why tonight?” 

Aziraphale bites at his lip, slightly - his own nervous habit. Their gaze is holding like a vice and he’s not sure how he’s possibly supposed to start this; if he’s supposed to ignore Crowley’s question and just act, or if he’s supposed to offer something that explains it all. 

He hopes it is not the latter, because he has no explanation to call to his aid. He doesn’t know ‘why tonight’. He doesn’t know why this need is building inside of him. He’s been physically attracted to Crowley for longer than he cares to admit and he’s been friend, in all but name, for many lifetimes of man. But there’s something changing between them, now. Or, perhaps, it’s the world changing around them. It’s as if everything is speeding up, the magnetism that holds them to the face of the planet growing stronger. It’s as if they are hurtling towards something, together, and he just wants to slow it all down, again, savour these stolen moments - the time spent drinking in pubs and laughing at humans singing Christmas carols - meeting in snow-dusted corners of the country for no reason other than to see one another. 

How many Christmases will they have left? He can feel the lines that lace the world together growing knotted, tangling, leading them towards some inevitable, terrible centre point where he and Crowley will be forced into opposition once more. And he cannot face that day without knowing him like this. That’s the only thing he is sure of. Because, when that day comes, Crowley will not be able to love him, anymore. He will have to turn away, in order to survive. Crowley can never chose him - can never chose this strange little together-apart life they lead, here on Earth. It would be the death of him. 

Aziraphale supposes, at the very selfish base of it, he might just want some more memories to hold onto. 

“I suppose I just… can’t not, anymore.” His voice is a whisper. His heart feels as if it is beating irregularly, contrasting with the movement of his lungs, which are steady - so steady. _Breathe in, breathe out. Like the sea. Like the waves. Like the never-ending flow of time_. “I miss you, when we’re apart, you know?” 

The words sort of fall out. He never intended to say them. He is not sure why he _is_ saying them. Of course he misses Crowley when they are apart. Crowley, who loves him, who knows him, who makes him feel good. Of course he misses him. The demon must know that. 

Golden eyes sweep his face, searching for something. 

He does not speak, however. 

“I know we can’t be friends,” Aziraphale continues, after a pause. “I know we’re not allowed that, but… I like to make you feel good. You deserve to feel good. And, well, you’re only thing, you know? The only thing that lasts, in this world…” 

What is he saying? He has no idea. All of his thoughts are mixed up, inside his skull - a jumble of emotion and want - and he doesn’t know why he’s chosen tonight. He can’t quite reach the answers, can’t even properly understand the question. And there’s this thing between them, this thing he cannot put a name to. This push, pull, relentless thing.

“You’re the most important bit, of it all…” he looks down, at the demon’s chest. Crowley is still dressed for outside, in a coat and a jacket. There is very fine silk lining the inside of the collar. It catches in the light. Black, like the long sweeps of his pupils are black, like the obsidian feathers of his wings are black. “I don’t really know what I’m trying to say…” the angel whispers.

“S’ok,” the demon murmurs back. “You don’t have to say anything. Only what you want, from me.” 

He’s leaned imperceptibly closer. Aziraphale can smell the scent of his skin and salt and the wine they were drinking, earlier that evening. 

“I want to touch you.” 

The demon’s stare is relentless. 

“Like you touched me, before? In that attic room? London?”

“No, like you touched me, in Antioch.” 

Crowley blinks. 

“Oh.” He swallows, visibly. “Right.”

Aziraphale’s heart is going so very fast, the beat of it frenetic, against his ribs. 

“Is that okay?”

The demon is quiet for what feels like a very long time. Then he swallows again, and nods. 

“Yeah… that’s okay, angel.” 

“Oh. Good.”

They stare at one another for a full ten seconds. Then, Aziraphale’s hands are reaching out - quite on their own - and the pair of them are moving together. 

The cold edges of lips are meeting, pressing into the warm insides of mouths. Tongues are sliding up against tongues, in the gaps between their kisses and Crowley’s hands are wrapping around the back of his neck, tilting his head back, asking for more. 

Their skin is freezing from their long walk outside. The blood rushing beneath it feels like fire. The little noises of disbelief that come out of them are intoxicating. It all feels very involuntary. Aziraphale is not sure they could stop, if they tried, and the concept of trying feels like madness. The only thing that makes sense at all is to fist his hands into his friend’s fine clothes and tug them back, towards the bed. 

The demon’s coat and jacket are gone in a frantic series of movements, Crowley tossing them mindlessly away, towards the door. The angel allows his own to follow, then for the buttons to be pulled at the front of his waistcoat, until he’s down to a shirt and the demon’s fingers are threatening to yank the remaining fabric apart, at the seams. 

“Here,” he pushes the hands away and performs some minor miracle which allows the buttons to come free. Then remembers, vaguely, that this is not supposed to be about him. “Bed?” He motions for the demon to move there.

“Yeah, okay.” 

Stepping back, Crowley does a distracted little half circle, then manages to reconnect his brain. Correctly identifying the bed, he stumbles around the wooden pillars of it and sets himself heavily down upon it. Aziraphale follows him over, watching him toe off his boots and pull his legs up underneath him. Then, the demon reaches out a tentative hand, to hook into the waist of the angel’s trousers, and he draws himself up by it. Kneels up. Torso and neck stretched out long. Eyes eager.

Like a snake, the angel thinks, feeling the faintest shiver of something that could be either fear or anticipation. Like a snake, rising up from a basket, drawn by a charmer. 

_Snake. Demon. Other._

But he knows that, the angel thinks. He knows Crowley. Knows what he is, what he has been, what he could be. The snake parts sit alongside the demon parts, sit alongside the Earthly parts, sit alongside the rest of him. There is so much, beneath the rules he has set himself, and what Hell has given him, and how God has marked him. There is a seething mess, under his surface, and not all of it is as beautiful as his high cheekbones, and the wiry strength of his shoulders, and the long taper of his waist, but it is all part of him - and so the angel loves it. 

He loves the desperation with which Crowley’s long hands pull him forwards. Loves the insecurity in his eyes as he listens to what Aziraphale wants from him, and the flush that paints his cheeks, in response. He loves the way the demon bites down on the inside of his lip as he rolls onto his back and lets Aziraphale tug his trousers down, over slender thighs. 

He's already hard as the angel pulls him free of his underclothes. And his cock twitches as he presses a kiss into the crease of his thigh. 

_Aziraphale loves that, too._

“Ngh-,” the demon hisses, squirming a little as he presses a second kiss into the root of his swollen cock. “Slow, angel… slow slow slow…”

“Okay.” His back arches, reflexively, as Aziraphale places a palm against the side of his belly, scratching his fingertips, distracting from the previous sensation. “Whatever you like,” he tells his demon, thumb rubbing over hair that is only slightly darker than the burnished copper of his head, that runs in a perfect line, right down the centre of him. “Just tell me when it’s good.”

“Mmh. Sss’all good.” His friend’s tongue is forked. Aziraphale can see pink tips behind the sharp white points of his teeth as the demon drops his head back, to the pillows, lips curled in a pant. “That’sss the problem - ah!” 

His fingers slide gently around the hard-soft shaft of the demon, gripping him, feeling the flesh give slightly inside the cave of his loosely clenched fist. Crowley’s skin is soft, so soft. And the tip of him leaves a streak of wetness against Aziraphale’s palm as he draws it all the way up and over. He adds more wetness with miracled oil. Repeats the movement. 

The demon makes a noise, somewhere between a whimper and the angel’s name. 

Aziraphale bites his lip. Tries not to drown on the mixture of arousal and pride that floods through him, to bring such pleasure. He repeats the movement, keeping it slow and steady, until he’s set up a gentle rhythm and his friend’s breaths are beginning to grow ragged - until his abdomen and the sharp tendons of his legs tighten, in little jerks and shudders, in time with the movements of his hand. 

The tentative little thrusts are punctuated by half-swallowed profanities. He really does have a filthy mouth, the angel thinks, staring up into Crowley’s parted lips. It’s doing strange things to his own body. It is beginning to scream with neglect. He’s hard and shoved up into a crease of his trousers, and the fact that his belt is undone is only a minimal consolation. The way Crowley brushes against him, every time he squirms, is firing tension straight into his spine. 

Perhaps his friend notices, because suddenly he’s reaching down, tugging gently at the angel’s shoulder, pulling him up to join him. 

Aziraphale obeys. Even though this is supposed to be about Crowley. 

It’s easy to let himself be steered over the top of him, to straddle a thigh, to stare down into golden irises. 

“Where do you want me?” He asks.

“Here.”

The demon is pushing roughly at his trousers, sliding them down far enough to get a hand in, to wrap around his cock. It is beautiful relief and the angel takes a moment to revel in the sensation before resuming his own attentions. His hand slides down between them, over blood-hot flesh. 

“That okay?”

“Yeah… Bit more…”

“Like this?”

“Ah-,” a little, shuddering whine. “Yeah… That. Definitely that.”

The angle is a bit awkward, but it doesn’t matter, because Crowley’s hooked a leg over the side of his thigh and he’s holding them together. And the angel’s wrist is beginning to seize, but he’ll push through that, he’ll push through anything, to hear his friend gasp out his name, again, and curl in on himself, forehead pressed into his chest. He’ll do anything to feel the demon’s leg tighten, to feel his movements grow more erratic under the steady pull of his hand. He’ll do anything feel Crowley shudder, hand stilling between his legs, grip growing infinitesimally tighter - to feel that wet mouth open wide against his neck, to feel him thrust twice more, and then feel the spill of wet heat across his fingers, marking his belly, right under the ribs. To feel him whimper through the aftermath. 

“Oh shit, oh fuck, oh shit-!”

_Fuck._

He’s suddenly on the edge and Crowley’s hand is still clasped, stationary, around him, too caught up in his own ecstasy to make any sensible movement. So, the angel pushes forwards into him, instead. It’s a different sensation and it catches him slightly off guard, tipping him right over the edge.

His climax is deep and intense, overwhelming his senses and transcending any insecurities he might have had about his friend watching, about the technicalities of his performance. As his vision slowly returns from white, he finds the demon’s eyes have opened to focus on him, a couple inches away. They hover like that, for a handful of seconds, then all of the angel's muscles relax, as one. His head falls forwards, nose nudging into the demon’s cheek. 

Crowley turns his head to receive him in a kiss. Then another. Then another. 

They share a few languid minutes, exchanging kisses, everything unhurried and unfettered by reality. Between them, the sweat on their skin begins to cool. The thunder of the heartbeats fade, and the memory of desperation dims into a quiet satisfaction. They draw their faces apart only when their bodies start to grow dizzy from the lack of oxygen. 

“That was nice,” the angel murmurs, dropping his head forwards, to rest against the demon's shoulder. 

It is so very odd, but so very perfect, to be pressed against one another this way. All the barriers they are usually so stringent about are gone, and it’s okay. It’s fine. It’s beautiful. 

“Yeah, not ssso bad,” Crowley grumbles. 

Aziraphale might have considered worrying about the comment if the demon's eyes hadn’t still been shut and his fingers hadn’t been tangled in his hair, holding them close. If he hadn’t been wearing a shy smile that looked so much like bliss. 

_Oh, they are in so much trouble…_

Unease stirs, amidst the wide expanses of satisfaction.  His brain begins ticking back into place. 

They shouldn’t have done this, he thinks, as consequences begin to take form, in his imagination. They’re opening themselves up to so much pain. There’s no way of knowing that this won’t draw attention. There’s no way of knowing that this act has not, even now, marked them out for destruction. He knows that one of them doesn't raise any flags, but both of them? What if someone can register that level of magic? 

For a moment, the angel imagines that he is looking down upon them both, lying tangled in one another. He imagines eyes boring down into them. And, for a moment, it feels as if God’s presence is cutting into him, scything him free of his human skin. Aziraphale would not have been surprised to feel himself lifting, discorporated, pulled back into Heaven by the root of his wings. He would not be surprised to find himself suddenly surrounded by blinding whiteness and pillars of fire. To hear the judgement of his brethren and feel the cut of a celestial knife into his shoulder blades. To be falling. Burning.

“You okay?”

He opens his eyes. Finds himself in the safety of their quiet room. Neutral territory. The only burning, that of the fire. His heart continues to thunder away, in his chest. 

“Angel?”

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, though there is a strange mix of love and terror racing through him, jamming up his brain.

He’s not sure what he’s feeling. It’s not regret, but it might well be shame. He shouldn’t have done this. Shouldn’t have pushed this. He knew where it would lead, because he knows Crowley, knows that he’ll do very nearly anything for him.  He can say that this was about making the demon feel good all he likes but, in truth, it was about him, too. He's been so selfish.  This wasn’t fair. He’s put them both in danger by giving in to this need. 

The angel swallows, trying to dull the rising panic. Though he’s trying desperately not to, he can feel his body tensing, pulling away from Crowley's. A bit more of his weight is taking in his own forearms and there’s unease in the way their hips are pressed together - as if they’re both suddenly aware of which bits of bodies belong to who. Two bashful, fearful things, where they used to be one, blissful thing. 

Beneath him, the demon’s breaths grow a little shallower.

There is an awkward silence. Then, a long hand rises up, damp fingertips pressing into the side of his jaw. 

“Hey-,” Crowley nudges at him, directing his attention down. Meeting the demon’s eyes, Aziraphale can see a little fear there, too. “It’s okay. We’re okay.” 

Emotion rushes through him, temporarily lessening the fear. 

We’re in this together, aren’t we? He thinks, feeling that strange magnetism between them tug. They are both guilty of this crime, both guilty of feeling something that should belong solely to Earth. They are both laid out, both vulnerable. They’re a mess, he thinks, letting his shoulders relax a bit, letting his belly press back into the demon’s - feeling the way Crowley's breaths have quickened, underneath him. If they're not careful, they are going to get themselves killed, or worse. They’re going to have to be _so_ careful.

He tilts his head down, presses a kiss into the underside of the demon’s collarbone, against a scar he remembers from years and years and years ago. A fall from a tree. A little thing, easily fixed. Possibly the first thing he ever fixed, for Crowley. It’s incomprehensible, what their bodies chose to keep. What marks them and what fades away with the passage of time. 

“Sorry,” he tells the demon. “Got lost in my head, there, for a minute.”

“Yeah, I get that…” They lie for a moment, then Crowley tentatively rubs a hand against the back of his neck. “Listen, it’s fine. We don’t have to talk about it. We can just wash up, if you like? Then you could read to me, if you’re not too tired? I like that. Making the pictures in my head is easier than reading the words.” 

The angel nods. “I can do that.” 

.

They wash up and half dress themselves. Then, the angel reads to the demon from his favourite out of the six books he has siting on the bedside table.  It’s a funny sort of drawing apart. They do it in stages, as if they can’t face it all at once. They start off wrapped around one another and end up sprawled at either end of the four poster, only their feet touching, tangled in the middle. They fall asleep like that - the demon out of habit, the angel following, in an attempt to give his brain a rest from the endless cycling of thoughts. 

He wakes in the pre-dawn, with Crowley fully dressed and kneeling beside the bed, one hand on his shoulder. 

“I’ve got to run,” his eyes are almost iridescent in the near-total darkness. Like some predatory animal. “Wiles to wile, mild inconveniences to perpetrate… you know how it is.”

“Yes, of course.” Aziraphale is dozy, half awake. The situation is surreal. It is like nothing they’ve done before, yet it feels like Crowley belongs, here, in his space. It feels like they are another version of themselves, in a parallel world. “Well, thank you for coming all this way just to see me. I do appreciate it.”

The demon watches him, expression inscrutable. 

“Yeah,” he says shortly, after a few seconds. “Anytime, angel.”

“Take care of yourself, won’t you?” 

“I will.”

The hand at his shoulder lifts, slightly, and moves to slide over the angel’s palm, lying on the bedspread between them. He takes the hand, bows his head over it, places a kiss on the fleshy rise of the thumb. 

“One for the road,” he mutters. Then he stands and stalks off towards the door, pausing beside it to throw a slightly shy look at Aziraphale. “You’ll have to let me out. Couldn’t break this if I threw what’s left of my soul at it.” 

The angel watches him and, for the briefest of moments, considers saying no. Considers keeping him here, forever, wrapped up in the fantasy bubble where they can pretend to be other people, pretend to belong to one another, pretend that it’s all okay. But that’s not what he wants, a tiny, terrified part of his brain whispers. He wants Crowley to choose him. He wants him in the real world. 

He wants Crowley in his bookshop and his little flat. Wants him whinging at the cold as they walk through the park, to lunch. Wants him frightening the carriage horses and upsetting the locals, and messing with the street signs, and tidying bits and pieces when he doesn’t have to. Wants him sunk into some comfortable bed, somewhere, moaning like he now knows he can, head tilted back, the edges of those too-sharp teeth on show beneath a dark lip. Wants to be inside him, around him, all of it. Wants the demon arching up to meet him, laughing with him afterwards, curled up around him as they sleep. Wants him at his side, belonging. 

Wants him in all the ways he can never have him. 

He raises a hand, obliterates the wards around the place. 

“Goodnight Crowley,” he murmurs softly, across the room. It’s goodnight because he cannot ask the demon to stay until ‘good morning’, because he cannot bear to say ‘goodbye’. 

His friend twists the handle, steps out into the hall, glancing back at him before muttering softly,

“Night, angel,” and closing the door. 


	9. Ardennes

_1945_

The trees are thick and the air muffled with snow, but he can smell a miracle from miles away. It’s a strong one, something of life about it. 

The demon tilts his head back to sniff the air, lets his tongue flick out to taste the night around him. 

It’s a fresh night, full of pine and snow and the faint smell of gunpowder. The forest around him is teeming with life, but not a soul of it is above ground. They are dug into foxholes, in the frozen earth, in the snow, crouched around fires under tarps, the smoke stinging their eyes. Looking around, Crowley’s keen night vision can pick out the shapes of their hide outs, in between the trees. No human will spot them, though. Not until they are too close. Not unless there is a flare lighting their way. 

He sniffs the air again and turns, heading on in the same direction as before, boots sinking into the snow and punching through the frozen leaf litter beneath. At least the mud has frozen, he thinks, struggling on, hearing the soft sound of his breaths fill the silent air. He’s not sure what’s worse - war in winter or war in the stinking mud of summer. For once in his life, he thinks he might chose the cold option. 

Overhead, the sky is suddenly lit by a flare. Then, the silence is shattered by a distant explosion. The ground shudders. The demon wobbles on his feet, but continues on. The bombs should not fall here, tonight. He’s read the plans on both sides of the battlefields. He has been slipping bits and pieces back and forth, as befits his needs. Espionage is the perfect guise for a demon, in times of war. There will always be humans willing to let him in to their fold, in exchange for his unique skillset. 

The demon crunches on, pushing through the snow, ignoring a second, distant explosion - light, illuminating the treetops, then sound, a few seconds later. Half a mile away, the demon thinks, glancing over in that direction. A planned attack. No reason to fear. 

He’s become used to war. There seems to have been little else, these last hundred years. Crowley has marched to war in Africa, and North America, and all over Europe. He has clung to the side of great ships, retching over the side in the swell, as the humans wrought battle on the water. He has clung onto the backs of reticent horses, and gripped the seats of motorcycles, and squatted in the bellies of tanks. He has been covered in soot, and chlorine gas, and blood, and mud - so much mud. He’s been shot at, and stabbed. He should have died at least dozen times but for luck and the occasional intervention of an angel. 

Aziraphale always seems to know when Crowley needs him. Like Crowley always seems to know when Aziraphale needs him. 

He trudges on, through the dark. 

Another light, another explosion, the distant rumble of propellers in the sky. 

The barrage falling, tonight, precedes the main air offensive. The perpetrators are attempting to cut off a supply route to a tank division, on the western front. The men who scramble for their foxholes, in those trees, will not live to see the morning, the demon thinks, as he nearly trips on the snow-covered roots of a tree. There is little hope for anyone against the smell of gunpowder and forces enough to rip a stone house from its foundations. 

He finds an overturned tree, scrambles over it, unable to see far enough to make his way around it, through the dense pine forest. 

He always liked the smell of pine, before, but the Ardennes has linked it irrevocably, now, with the smell of blood. Crowley has seen more death, these past hundred years, than in all the years leading up to them. It makes sense, he supposes. There are more humans now to die than ever before. Yet, his side seem to be doing less and less. Perhaps, it is the cumulative effects of all of their past work, Crowley thinks, as he stumbles forwards and nearly falls into an old foxhole, covered over with snow. Perhaps, it is all growing with the number of humans. Perhaps, the greed and rage, and hatred in them, now, is the very same stuff which he sewed into those first humans, so very long ago. 

Only that cannot be right, he thinks, stumbling into an old foxhole and having to pull himself back out again - having to rediscover his footing. He sewed curiosity, not greed. He sewed want, not rage. He gave them knowledge and they found shame in it. But they also found hope. Did any of what he did matter, in the end? Would the humans have eventually found the fruit themselves? Would Eve have bitten into its sweet flesh, even without his words? He doesn’t know. Can’t know. 

He tilts his head right back, peering up, into the darkness. 

The moon is nearly full, overhead. It bathes the forest in a wash of blue and silver. The stars are bright points amongst the clear, inky black. No orange glow disturbs them, here, like back in London. They are far from any city. These stars are bright enough to point his way. To lead him home. 

The demon pushes on, through the snow, urging his legs to move faster, ignoring the discomfort of cold air piling into his lungs. His throat feels rubbed raw. He’s moving faster than he should, really. He doesn’t really need to rush. His destination is not going anywhere anytime soon. But he does not want to be out here any longer than is necessary. His bones are beginning to ache, from the cold, from the snow and the wind, from a thousand days without shelter and a proper bed. He’s been at war for far too long. 

_He’s been at war all of his days. All of his life, apart from a few, stolen moments. He had never realised, until he tasted peace. He thinks he might be happier if he’d remained ignorant._

“Did you see that flash?” A sentry calls out, somewhere in the darkness of the trees. 

The demon hears another soldier give the countersign, hears a ‘welcome’, then the noise of someone slipping down the frozen dirt side of a foxhole, under a tarp, into the warmth created by shared body heat. 

He could worm his way into that foxhole too, he thinks. He knows all the challenges, all the passwords, all the cyphers and all the codes. He knows how to unpick secrets from human minds like they are nothing more than the tangled links in a chain. He’s dexterous, Crowley is. Always has been. Swift fingered, silver tongued. 

_Demon. Snake. Other._

The flash of a flare, directly overhead, catches him by surprise. He trips and lands, sprawled, into the snow, and momentary rage at the cold, and the war, and the seeming malice of inanimate objects overwhelms him. 

He swears, kicking a nearby log, which falls from where it was stacked, against a tree, with an almighty crash. 

The sentry and the soldiers in the nearby foxhole shout out. A warning shot is fired overhead. 

Instead of making the demon drop down and shut up, it riles him further. 

“Oh, that’s right - go on, then - shoot at me! What’s a few more bullets-,” he kicks the log again, earning himself a volley of shots and a shout to identify himself. “I’m the Serpent of Eden, you ignorant cretins,” he snarls, into the darkness. “I could destroy you! I could wipe you from the face of this planet!” 

A low hum of voices greets this announcement, the soldiers clearly unsure whether or not to fire again. So, Crowley continues in German, just because he can. Just because he knows how, and because he knows that it will sew fear into the soldier’s hearts all night. 

“Just keep fucking shooting me - it’ll solve everything, won’t it? Forget logic, or knowledge, or showing any remote sign of intelligence - guns are always the answer! It’ll all stop soon, if you just keep shooting at it. Just a couple more bullets, chaps!” He snarls, then switches to French. “Just another couple hundred grenades.” He switches to English, lacing it with a heavy American accent. “Let’s do it, boys. Just keep shooting. Shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot!”

There are bullets raining overhead and one splinters off a huge branch of the nearest pine tree. It falls with a crash against the demon’s head and he yelps in pain. 

“Fuck the lot of you bastards!” 

A grenade explodes nearby and the blowback forces him off his unsteady knees and onto the ground. He rolls over, in the snow, head spinning, seeing stars around him, stars below, stars above. It’s like falling through space, through time. His vision is swimming. 

Somewhere between the ground and the stars, a shape looms over him. There’s a faint glow around the outline, but he’s not sure if that’s just his eyes. It looks a bit like a halo.

He squints. 

“That you, angel?” 

But, with that, another grenade explodes nearby and the sound seems to blast him from consciousness. 

.

He wakes on an uncomfortable straw pallet bed, tied up tightly in a sheet. He cannot move his arms. It becomes immediately apparent that this is intentional, because, as he wriggles around and struggles to right himself, a young nurse appears at his shoulder, peering suspiciously down at him. 

“Awake, are you?” 

She’s speaking a regional French dialect that takes a good thirty second to filter through Crowley’s addled brain. It permeates around the same time that he realises he is not wearing his sunglasses, and he blinks, in surprise. 

The human eyes him with a little apprehension, then tells him she’ll fetch the medic and disappears from view. By past experience, Crowley thinks it is a mild reaction to seeing demon eyes. He wonders if there’s something wrong with the girl, if she’s only partially sighted. Or, perhaps, in the employ of his kind. Or worse, the opposition’s. 

Panic rises within him. 

He needs to get out of here. Needs to get away. Needs to run, hide, something. 

He struggles a bit against his blanket bonds, then tries to summon the magic to break himself out. It doesn’t work. It’s as if there is a dampening force around him. Try as he might, he cannot draw any power from outside of it. Reaching out with the innate power of his soul, he identifies that it feels a bit like a cage, woven with strands of light. Angel magic. Almost certainly. But not infallible. 

Concentrating on the centre point of the strands, he focusses what is left of his will power and begins to push. The work is strong, but he can sense the limits of it. If he can only find some weakness, he thinks, prodding the thing with every permutation of will he can summon. If he can only find some edge, he can peel it back, and just maybe… maybe…

“That won’t work,” a familiar voice informs him, from beyond his range of vision.

The demon startles. 

“Eh?” 

There’s a swooping sensation in his gut, a tightening at the base of his spine, before he even consciously realises who the voice belongs to. By the time Aziraphale steps into view, his mouth has already drawn back into a smile. 

He fixes the expression, as soon as possible, drawing on the most ferocious frown he can manage.

“What the Heaven is this about?” He wriggles violently against the sheet that is strapping his arms to his chest. “Let me out, won’t you?”

“Do you promise to sit still, if I do?”

Aziraphale walks around and kneels down beside the straw pallet. 

He looks very different than he did, just four years previous, in London. He is thinner than usual, the shadows under his eyes a little more pronounced. His hair is clipped almost brutally short at the back and sides, only the hint of a few curls on top. The effect makes him look strangely young, strangely vulnerable. It is an odd contrast with the power that he’s radiating - which is more powerful than the demon has ever experienced from him, before. 

“What…” he begins, craning his head to look around them a bit further. “What is this place? Where are we?”

“Field hospital,” the angel says, shortly, reaching out and flashing a light between his eyes. 

The sensation is painful.

Crowley swears and tries to inch away, but the sheet prevents him from doing so.

“What the-, will you take this damned thing off?” 

“Only if you agree to sit still,” Aziraphale repeats. 

His voice is calm, but there is an edge to it. He’s pissed. Crowley can tell. 

Rolling his eyes, then flinching at the pain it causes, he mutters a tiny ‘yes’ and motions for the angel to get on with the process. 

Reaching up, Aziraphale does. 

The removal of the sheet salves Crowley’s nerves, a little, but does nothing to improve the pain in his body. His ribs are aching underneath it, his shoulder on fire. The tendons of his neck feel as if they’ve been nearly disconnected along one side and his head itself is throbbing fit to burst. There are two distinct points of agony. One is the place on his forehead where he remembers a tree branch glancing across him. The second is around the back, on the opposite side. Perhaps from where he hit the ground. He’s not sure. 

“Jesus wept,” he mutters, raising a hand to feel it. 

Aziraphale reaches out and grabs his hand. “Sit still and don’t touch!” He snaps, eyes like chips of ice. “You promised. And don’t blaspheme… I’ve had enough of a day as it is.” 

“ _You’ve_ had enough of a day?” 

“Yes, _I_ have!” He swings those hard eyes back up, and the sight of them freezes the demon back against the pallet, freezes the self-pitying tirade in his throat. “Not that you’d know, but I’ve had rather a lot on, actually,” Aziraphale snaps, none of the usual warmth to his voice. “Could have done without you traipsing through here, today.”

Crowley blinks. 

It is unusual to hear such vitriol from his counterpart. Even in the most desperate situations, Aziraphale was either apologetic or fearful. Crowley cannot remember the last time he heard him actually angry. And he’s never sounded quite like this.

“Well, apologies,” he mutters, caught off guard. 

“Bollocks to your apologies,” the angel snaps, causing the demon to stare even harder. “You caused that fuss out there intentionally. You came wandering up here, knowing fine well that i’m working in this area - and don’t deny it, I know you know. You always know. You keep track of where I am, same as I do you.” 

“Well,” Crowley blusters. “I don’t-, I never-,”

“I really could have done without this, tonight,” Aziraphale continues, building up steam, now. “I’ve been away all day, wasting my time dealing with some job that Upstairs wanted me to attend to. And you know what, Crowley, it was really bloody awful. It was vile. It was disgusting. But I did it anyway. I did everything that was expected of me,” his face contorts, he looks down. “And then I get back here,” he waves a hand, indicating the cloth cubicle walls. “And I was forwards to maybe having a moment or two to myself, before ward rounds, but then I hear that some lunatic has been captured in the woods, shouting about being the Serpent of Eden and bleeding all over the place.”

“Sounds like a twat,” Crowley offers, a vain attempt at levity. 

The angel lifts his hand, silently opposing two of his fingers in what Crowley understands to be the international symbol for ‘shut your mouth or I will forcibly eject you from this Earth’. 

“So, I head out to meet the patrol and my worst suspicions are confirmed,” he continues, “And I only _just_ manage to stop them from shooting you as a German spy. I have to make up some cock and bull story about you being a former patient of mine - some soldier, with shell shock, who has escaped from the hospital up the road. It takes three miracles to convince them all, and set them on their way. And another to get you a bed, in here. I had to hide your wounds, so nobody would be suspicious that you’re still alive. And then, as I walk through to the next tent, to find something to tie you up with, I find Uriel, waiting for me.”

Crowley had always assumed the phrase ‘and all the blood drained from their face’ to be poetic license, until he felt the thing happen for himself. He imagines he looks like a ghost as he looks up to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. 

“Uriel? Here?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

Aziraphale watches him for a long second, then shakes his head. “No. They’ve gone south.” He visible clenches and unclenches his jaw. “I managed to distract them with some information about a demon being encamped, down in Bastogne, with American intelligence.”

“Hey, I’ve been working on that cover for months-!” 

“You could have been discorporated!” Aziraphale hisses, scooting forwards until he is right up against the edge of the straw pallet, his hand rising to shove non-too-gently into Crowley’s chest, pushing him back against his pillows. The demon gives a muffled grunt of pain. “You could have been destroyed!” Aziraphale hisses again, and fisting into into his bloodied shirt, threateningly just over his heart. 

The pressure of it is unbearable. Crowley can sense the latent power of him like he’s never felt it before. A strange mix of arousal and fear goes shooting up his spine, and he has to clamp down on the ridiculous impulse to struggle, to shift, to lean into that strength. It occurs to him, faintly, that he should be feeling terror. But this is Aziraphale, leaning down, over him. Aziraphale, who has never harmed him. Even if the angel’s eyes are boring into him with righteous anger, the demon cannot find it in himself to be truly afraid. 

His eyes are blue tonight, his mind supplies, instead. Just one colour, though they usually shift between hazel, and blue, and green, depending on the light. Tonight, they appear made of ice. 

“How could you be so stupid?” The angel rasps at him. Those eyes are slightly wet, now, under his furrowed brow. 

A little thrill of fear finally passes through the demon, as a result. 

“Hey…” 

“How could you take that risk? You must have felt the miracle. You must have known that Heaven had projects on the go, up this way. You keep track of things, Crowley. That’s how you’ve survived here so long. That’s how _we’ve_ survived so long.” He takes an overlarge breath, looks away, drops his hand from Crowley’s shirt, leans back on his haunches. 

“Fuck, angel,” the demon mutters. “Sorry…”

“No, you’re not! You’re never sorry. You’re always just… you always get away with it and so you think it’s okay - but you could have been killed tonight, Crowley!” 

“…wasn’t though.”

“Not through anything other than sheer, dumb luck!” 

The demon’s hand shifts, moving to run distractedly through his hair - a nervous tic. Aziraphale reaches out and snatches the hand away, before it can reach its target, forcing it back down to the bed. 

“I told you not to touch!”

“Sorry,” Crowley whispers, again.

They sit for a long minute in horrible silence. 

“How bad is it?” The demon asks, eventually. “My head?”

Aziraphale eyes him, sideways. 

“Let’s just say that, if you had to rely on physical brain cells for thought, you’d now be at a working disadvantage. Thankfully, thinking has never been your primary skill.” 

It sounds like more of an insult than a medical explanation, but Crowley lets it slide. His angel is stressed and pissed and kneeling in the aftermath of a near-exposure encounter with an Archangel. 

“Will I be okay?”

“Well, I’ve set the bone, put most of the tissues back where they should be, and your eyesight seems to have returned to normal. Though I’ll have to wait until your eyes are back to normal to know for sure. Which means I’d like you to stay in, overnight.” 

“What do you mean wait until my eyes are back to normal?”

Aziraphale throws him a strange look, then pushes his hand into his thigh, helping himself up to stand. 

“I’ll show you. Just a moment…”

He walks over to a small table, on the other side of the small hospital bay. Pushing aside the curtain, to give himself more space, he rummages around in the little bag there, finally emerging with a mirror with a crack running down the middle of it. He carries it back over and offers it out to Crowley, that strange expression still lingering on his face. 

The demon takes it, frowning, wondering what horror he could possibly have inflicted on his Earthly form that was worse than ripping open the back of his skull. 

He looks down at the mirror and nearly drops it. 

The face that stares back at him is very nearly familiar, very nearly his own. There are a few additions from his night’s adventures; a big gash across his forehead, sealed by magic and a few stitches, some bad bruises, and of blood smeared across one of his cheeks. His lip is split in the centre and swollen, but its nothing he’s not seen before - after a bad fight, or a battle. The eyes, however, are completely different. 

The sclera is white. The irises are soft discs of golden yellow. And the pupils are round. Like a human’s. Like an angel’s. Like something that wasn’t shoved up, through the ground, from the pits of Hell. 

He lays the mirror down. Stares ahead. 

He picks the mirror up again. Stares down at it. 

“I’m sorry, I just-,” Aziraphale mutters, off to his right. The anger seems to be fading from his voice, in the face of the demon’s reaction. “I know it’s not the done thing, to change someone’s appearance like that - even if it is only temporary. I just needed to hide you. It would have been the very last straw, if the soldiers had seen them, and everyone’s on edge, tonight, because of the air strikes. I just needed you safe…” 

“Yeah. Of course…” his voice is a thin thing, stretched over the sudden uprising of grief in his chest. This might have been his face, he thinks. He never had a body, before he was a demon. There was no Earth, so there was no need. But this might have been his face, perhaps, if things had been different. 

He puts the mirror down, reflective side down this time, and stares blankly ahead. 

There’s wet heat in the crease of his cheek and he’s afraid to blink because the movement will push more tears out from these eyes that he might have had. And he doesn’t want Aziraphale to watch him cry. 

For the first time, in a very long time, he wishes he were alone. 

“I’m sorry, dear boy,” the voice at his shoulder says again, and it’s softer this time. There is no anger, anymore, just gentle empathy. “I would never have done it if I didn’t have to.” 

Aziraphale knows every bit of why this is painful, the demon thinks, maintaining his steady stare at the wall opposite. Aziraphale has seen the way people flinch at the sight of him. Aziraphale has listened to him excuse away his appearance with lies of some disease, or injury. Aziraphale has watched him hide his face away with hoods, and veils, and tinted glasses. Has watched him lurk in shadows, all of his Earthly days. 

The reality of not having to hide - even momentarily - is mind blowing. He could walk up to anyone, tonight, and they would not know what he was. There might still be able to detect that faint aura surrounding him, that thing that sets people on edge, but they wouldn’t know, just to look at him. They wouldn’t see something fallen, something monstrous. He would just look like something else that belonged on Earth. 

“It’s fine,” he mumbles, though it isn’t. “Forget about it.”

“Crowley-,”

“It’s fine. And I’m sorry about causing trouble for you.”

“I know you are.”

“Really am.”

“Okay…”

They sit for a long minute, then Aziraphale murmurs softly that he’d like to check him over, just to see if the bones have set properly. 

“It’ll hurt more if I have to redo them, later,” he tells the demon, softly, and Crowley just nods and lets himself be manhandled, lets the angel flex all of his fingers and his arm, checking that the movements match on both sides. He lets him gently prod around the injuries to his head, though the sensation is agony. It distracts from the strange buzzing in his brain. He doesn’t object when the angel cuts his shirt free, so that it doesn’t have to come over his head - when he exposes his chest, to wash the blood free, from his skin. It’s okay. It’s fine. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen, before. 

They’ve been right up against one another, before, Crowley thinks, staring into the wall of the field hospital bay. Three times, in the last hundred years. He can still taste the angel, if he concentrates hard enough - and he is very practiced at reliving those old memories. They are all that keep him warm, in his makeshift cot, at night. 

He’ll wrap his hand around himself and mimic the movements his friend’s hand made. He’ll close his eyes and remember the little shifting expression of Aziraphale’s face, and how the soft flesh of the angel’s side had felt, underneath his fingers. He’ll remember them nestled up against one another - that night, in the inn, by the bay - sharing space, skin, breaths. He’ll try not to remember the sinking feeling of Aziraphale pulling away from him, afterwards, regret painted across his features. 

He’ll remember the second time, a dozen years later, in the spring, back in London. Laughing and drunk, and pushed up against the wall of the library of some Earl, or Lord. He’d taken Aziraphale in there to see the books. He’d never really meaning anything by it, but they’d sort of gravitated together as they joked their way along the aisles, touching a little too much. And then, suddenly, they'd been pressed up against a wooden pillar, the angel behind him, slipping a hand down the front of his trousers. And it had all been embarrassingly quick - because he stopped sharing his body with humans quite a while ago, now - and, afterwards, Aziraphale had just kissed the back of his neck and thanked him, softly, and said he’d see him back outside. And he’d just stood there, leaning against the wooden bookcase to keep himself upright. 

_Sure, angel. Anytime, angel._

He’d said ‘anytime’, that first night. Meant it, too. He was happy just to have the contact, to be wanted for sex, even if nothing else. He only stopped meaning it the third time, kneeling between the angel’s legs, in an army barracks, in Scutari, halfway through the Crimean war. 

Kneeling in dirt spattered with his own ejaculate, throat raw from taking so much angel, the demon's hand was still down his pants and his friend’s strong hands were still winding tracks through his hair. And there was love burning through the heart of him, love in all of their movements, love in the way the angel was watching him. But, when Aziraphale opened his mouth, what came out was;

“We can’t keep doing this.”

And Crowley broke a little. 

_Okay, angel. That’s fine, angel._

But he’s not fine, not really. They draw back from one another, over the following years, and a lot of little walls they used to maintain, to protect themselves, are rebuilt. And there is a lot more talk about ‘your side’ and ‘my side’ - and not jokingly, like before. And then they’re arguing about holy water and he’s snapping that he doesn’t need Aziraphale, that he has plenty of other people to fraternise with. And they both know it’s a lie, and the angel throws it derisively back in his face - and that’s the worst part, that he knows just how to hurt him, that he knows him so well. 

Then, they’re apart, and they don’t see one another for eighty years. And those years are full of war and fear, and blood. It feels like the world is ending and Crowley seeks him out, occasionally, just to watch him from a distance. He’s scared that the world will end without either of them being warned, without them getting a chance to make up, to say goodbye. 

And then they’re in a church and the sky is falling, and he’s being stupid. He should have just let the angel get himself discorporated - or forced to perform a miracle and get reprimanded, for interfering - but he can’t. And it’s not that Crowley cares about Aziraphale being embarrassed. (Because, to be perfectly honest, the angel spends a lot of time doing things which warrant embarrassment. It wouldn't’ be anything new). But he does care about the punishment his friend will receive, for discorporation or interference in human affairs. Aziraphale has bent one rule too many, in the past. His masters have threatened reassignment, before. And, if that were to happen, Crowley might never see him again. He’d never get the chance to apologise. 

So, he goes to the church and he performs a last minute demonic intervention and a little miracle,as well - because he knows Aziraphale, knows he’ll forget about the books because he’ll be busy selflessly protecting them both. So he saves the angel and saves his books and, when he hands them over, the angel looks at him like he’s the sun. And that’s new. 

He’s never looked at him like that, before. 

It’s as if he has only just realised what Crowley has been practically screaming at him, for the past nine hundred years. 

They don’t talk about it. Instead, the demon gives him a ride home and makes sure he’s settled before heading out, to clean up any sign of them at the church. Then he returns to his little corner of London and they don’t see one another for a few months. Then not for a year, after that. 

They cross paths in Bruges and Paris, on work, and Crowley considers offering to restart The Arrangement, but he isn’t quite bold enough. And Aziraphale continues to look at him differently, but things don’t change. They’re still a little distant. The walls are still there. And then the his duties take him back to the front line and he’s back in thick of the fighting and there’s blood everywhere - and it’s all he can do to keep track of the angel. This is the first time he’s ventured up to where Aziraphale is working, in months. And it’s only because he has a temptation in the area. 

He should never have walked towards such a strong magical signature, tonight. He wasn’t thinking. Need was driving his actions. But they don’t need more need. What Aziraphale really required of him was to show a bit of intelligence - a bit of brainpower. But the angel was right, earlier. Thinking things through has never been Crowley’s strong point.

“Crowley?” A soft voice jerks him from his thoughts. The angel is holding one of his feet in one hand, a damp cloth in the other. The blood on the latter has come from the former, and its removal has revealed the scars that cover the underside of the demon’s feet. “How long have you had these?” Aziraphale asks him, voice tight. 

The demon lets his eyes trail down over his friend’s face, wondering why he bothers asking when he clearly already knows. Does he want to hear it? Does he get some kick out of reminding Crowley how pathetic he is? Is it some sort of advanced distancing technique. 

“Couple of years. Consecrated stone and all that,” the demon sighs, looking down at his toes, giving them an experimental wiggle. 

“Why didn’t you heal them?” The angel asks, sounding horrified

“Well, I did my best.”

“Crowley, these look like they healed the human way, over months.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not great at dealing with holy stuff.” 

“Why didn’t you ask for my help?” 

“I don’t need you to fix me, Aziraphale.”

The words come out a little too harshly because he’s thinking about the eyes again. He’s thinking about the way the angel tries to tidy up around them, making it neat, make it clean - and it’s making him angry, this time, as well as sad. 

“…I’m not trying to fix you.”

_But you are. You do. All the time. You want to glue me back together, like one of your damaged books. You dream of some impossible future where I can be forgiven and you can have everything you want without risking anything. Without the shame of me._

His throat burns a little. He looks away. 

“They don’t hurt anymore. They’re fine.”

“Well, I suppose that’s something…”

He moves the cloth down, over the outside of his foot and Crowley wonders what happened to his shoes. Wondered if he had spirited them up from nothing, again, and lost them when he stopped concentrating. That’s happened before. He’s never quite got the hang of buying clothes like commodities, hoarding and caring for them. Perhaps it’s the snake in him, treating them like part of his body he can slip out of, shift into, change. 

He feels uneasy in his body, for a moment, despite the fact that he’s been quite comfortable in it for the last thousand years. He feels the need to wrap himself in something, paint his skin, wear a mask, hide. Wants to escape into being someone else for a while. He’s good at that. London’s good for that. There are plenty of places for a serpent demon to hide, in the dark underbelly of the city. There are places even his dark glasses don’t receive a second glance. 

“Do you want anything to eat, to drink?” Aziraphale is asking him. 

“I’m not hungry. Do you have any whisky?” 

He nods. Of course he does. Even in the darkest of war zones, Aziraphale can always be trusted to have home comforts.

“Not on me,” he qualifies.

“Alright. Can we go back to your place, then? I don’t want to stay in the hospital. I promise I won’t leave till morning,” he adds, when the angel looks worried. “And I’ll let you check the head wound as much as you like.” 

Hesitantly, the angel agrees. 

Nodding his head, he gathers bits and pieces, tidies them away as Crowley pulls a blanket up around his shoulders to keep himself warm, in lieu of his now cut-up shirt. Thankfully the angel has left his trousers on. Probably so he doesn’t have to face the embarrassment of helping Crowley out of them, the demon thinks. There are lines that they observe, now, which are so much more specific than the lines that bound them in the past. 

Let me love you with all of my fractured soul, he thinks, sarcastically. Know that I’ll kill for you, die for you, run with you, but don’t dare imply that you might feel something for me that stretches your own definition of yourself. Don’t let me put you out, that way. 

He’s being cruel, but he cannot help himself. 

He’s tired and he’s cold, and the war has been a long one. 

.

They go back to the little room in the top of the hospital building, the angel helping him up the stairs because - as much as Crowley protests - his body isn’t feeling terribly up to it. All of his powers are gone into healing his physical form and he feels drained. 

There is a moments hesitation before Aziraphale allows him behind the veil of his magical protections. He has to alter one or two of the components in order to let him past and Crowley knows that he is thinking of Uriel as he does it. He’ll be thinking of the archangel, travelling down to Bastogne, on the trail of a demon who is sleeping in the bed of the very angel who sent him there. He’ll be worrying that the archangel will notice the changes to his protections when he returns, empty handed, a few days later. 

Well, let him worry a bit, Crowley thinks, darkly. Let the angel take a little of the fear he feels whenever he crosses into enemy territory, to check up on him. 

The animosity drains away as quickly as its come, however. Despite the charged atmosphere between them, despite the frustration and the need, Crowley can never quite remain angry with Aziraphale. It’s especially hard when the angel is there, beside him, helping him down onto the narrow bed and passing him a blanket - then replacing it with another because the second one is softer and he wants Crowley to have the best. It’s hard to feel any darkness towards a creature who measures whisky into glasses so carefully, and passes it over, taking care that Crowley does not stretch out his injured arm. 

Their fingers touch, as the demon accepts the glass, and the movement stimulates the angel to glance up, at his eyes. At those eyes which might have been his, but which aren’t his. 

He frowns minutely, clears his throat, looking away. 

Crowley watches him bustle off, back towards a small stove in the corner, where he puts on a kettle, starts to boil water, for tea. 

Part of Crowley wants to look at the eyes he is wearing again, but he knows it is not wise. He could spend all night staring at the glamour - but it is only that. It is a temporary illusion, and the demon is done with illusion. It never holds up, for long. He’s learned that the hard way. 

“Can I put something on, for you?” The angel asks, motioning towards the phonograph in the corner. Another home comfort. 

“Yeah. Whatever you like, angel.”

“Do you mind if it’s something Christmassy?” 

There’s a loaded aspect to that, the demon thinks. They’ve always liked to meet up on Christmas. They’ve kissed and touched and fucked on Christmas. There’s something about the way Aziraphale is holding himself, now, that tells the demon that, if he wanted to, if he pushed the situation just right, he could wrap himself around an angel, tonight. But he cannot deal with the bit that comes afterwards, anymore. 

Years-ago Crowley (and probably the Crowley of tomorrow, curled up in some uncomfortable cot, cold and alone) would bite his head off for it, but he’s not going to go there, tonight. If Aziraphale wants him, he has to come to him, the demon decides. He’s made a rule, in the seconds between hearing the angel ask him the question and forming an answer. If Aziraphale wants him, he has to want all of him. Has to chose him. He’s not up for the illusion anymore. 

“Christmas is fine,” he nods, and the angel puts on something soft and lilting. Some rendition of a Christmas carol that the demon has heard playing out, among the soldiers in the trenches. 

It reminds them of home, he thinks. It reminds him of home, too. 

He thinks of London in the snow, in the years between the great wars. He thinks of the bright coloured lights which have replaced candles in the windows and trees of the celebrating humans. He thinks of wreaths on the doors and the glow of fires in hearths, beyond the reaches of the cold. 

He thinks of that little room, in Antioch, and the lack of fire, but warmth of the stove - thinks of the rugs on the floor and the pillows by the window. He thinks of holding life against him. He thinks of the angel wrapped up under the same blankets, talking into the late hours of the night, the baby sleeping against his belly. 

The bits that came later, the touches and the kisses they’ve shared, that’s all great. He wants that. He wants all of it. But if he had to chose - if it was one bit or the other - what he really, really needs is that moment where Aziraphale is lost in their conversation, where he forgets about the world around them, and he’s doing that faint smile he does, sometimes, when he’s been staring into Crowley’s eyes for too long but he hasn’t quite realised, yet. That moment where his face is alive and open and the demon can glimpse what it might be like if they were just two people who’d met one another. Two people without all the rest of the shit that they carry. 

He closes his eyes, gives a yawn. 

His body is bone tired. After letting Aziraphale check over his head wound one last time, he sips down the last of his whisky and curls up on his side, on the bed, revelling in the familiar burn of the alcohol in his stomach, revelling in the sight of his counterpart wandering around the place, fussing over things in a complete pointless manner which leaves the tiny room no cleaner than it was when he started. 

Eventually, his fussing carries him back over and he pulls a chair up to sit beside the bed, beside Crowley, on the pretence of checking his head again. 

The phonograph plays on, because the angel expects it to, in the background - though the record should long have run out of music to play. 

“I’m sorry that I shouted at you, earlier,” Aziraphale whispers, after a time. He’s onto his third glass of whisky, and he always gets a bit expansive, at this point. The demon watches his eyes focus on the surface of the amber liquid, watch the dancing lights reflecting there. “It’s just been a terrible day and I was so afraid something was going to happen to you.”

He lifts eyes that are no longer ice, but blue and green, interspersed with grey. It’s the yellow of the walls that makes them appear that way, the demon thinks, staring up at them. He takes light from the world around and reflects it back. He’s an angel, Crowley reminds himself, and somehow manages it without resentment this time, without implication. It’s just what he is. What he’ll always be. 

“It’s fine,” he tells the angel. “No harm done. I’m sorry for giving you cause to shout.”

“I thought Uriel might figure it out, come back, find you… I was scared.” He closes his eyes and the demon reaches out, finding the movement calming rather than exhilarating, as he might have done in the past. 

His fingers wrap around his friend’s thumb, and Aziraphale’s fingers peel slowly away from the glass, slip down to interlace with his, and they sit that way, for a while - hands resting on the edge of the bed, between them.

“What did they ask you to do, today?” Crowley asks, eventually. He can feel the need to talk bouncing around the angel’s brain. “The miracle?”

A little delta of lines form across Aziraphale’s forehead. 

“Oh, that…”

“You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just-,” the angel pulls a face, eyes still closed. “It’s just all so horrible, really. There was supposed to be a fire, see, in a building with a whole family inside, celebrating the holiday…” He lets out a long, slow breath. “I was to save just the child. A baby, to be found untouched in the wreckage.”

“Just the baby?”

“Yes.” His lips tighten, forming a thin line. 

“And the rest of them had to burn?”

“Yes.”

The demon almost doesn’t want to ask. “…how many?”

“Five,” Aziraphale breathes, sucking on his lip, then sighing out, heavily. “A grandmother, two parents, two aunts. They were all so young.”

The demon squeezes the fingers in his grip. 

“They’re all young, angel.”

“I know…”

There is a long silence between them. The phonograph crackles, softly, and picks up on the first track again. 

“Why did they ask you?” Crowley muses, out loud. “Any of the others could have done it.”

“Not as I did it.”

“How do you mean?”

The angel’s eyes open, swivelling over to rest on him. 

“We all have specialities.” 

“Well yes, I know that…” he was an angel once, too. He used to build stars. 

“Well,” Aziraphale begins, slowly. “I am a Principality. I am made to protect humanity and, in the beginning, humanity was just one family. So, I have skills to understand and work with their social emotions that other angels don’t have.” 

“Like what?”

“I…” the angel falters slightly, then pushes ahead. “I didn’t change the building, or redirect the fire. I used the love of the family in the room below to wrap around him. You see, each of their dying thoughts was of saving the child, in the room above them - of how much they loved the child. I… used their love to save him. And it will mark him, now, forever. He will be wrapped in their love.” Aziraphale is holding his gaze with the sort of steadiness that implies he’s having to work for it. “That’s my specialty,” he tells Crowley, softly. “Other angels can sense piety, or turn dreams, or feel the turning of the earth. I can sense emotion. I can sense love.” 

The demon exhales, feeling this revelation settle over him. Feeling very exposed, but not so very bothered about it, all of a sudden - because the way Aziraphale is watching him is a little apologetic, but also very warm. It’s a knowing look. It’s nice, to feel known. 

_All out in the open then, angel. Ball’s in your court._

And, as he continues to hold onto Aziraphale’s hand, it hits him - why the angel started looking at him differently, that night, in the church. It was probably the first time he had ever done something purely out of love, without expecting anything, in return. Not the big showy miracle, that is - not the preventing him from being embarrassed, or discorporated, or even the removal of the Nazi spies - but the stupid thing about the books. It had been just for him. Just because he loved him. No ulterior motive. No intentions. Just love. 

The angel sits by his bed until he falls asleep, fingers tangled in one another’s. 

“Night angel,” he murmurs.

“Goodnight, Crowley.”


	10. Soho/Mayfair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JUST A SHORT ONE, they said. UNDER THREE THOUSAND WORDS, they said.  
> And God laughed.  
> .  
> Here you go. Only two left to go, now, and only two days behind schedule! :). c.

_1983_

There is colour, everywhere, now. There are billboards that light up, at night. There are neon signs in shop windows. The street lamps are electric and pale, and the headlamps of cars paint streams of it through the streets. Gold and red, up and down, the sound of their engines filing the air with a gentle hum of noise that’s so different than the rise and fall of horse’s hooves.

There is noise everywhere, too. The air is full of engines and the beep of horns. The chattering noise of people. There are more people than ever before. Aziraphale is not sure how London is fitting all of them in, but it is, and they keep coming in their droves. They keep multiplying and filling the city with their noise and colour, and hope and chatter. 

Perhaps it is some divine miracle he is not privy to; the way that streets that used to be dirt tracks seem have swollen, to accommodate humanity. The way that narrow timber houses have become brick and concrete, steel and glass - growing up, ever higher, towards the stars. There are towering, now. Far higher than he could have dreamed, a thousand years earlier (and he has wings). 

Humanity, reaching towards the stars they came from. 

Humanity, building worlds, and towers, temples and lights and cars.

The angel has never owned a car. It has never been relevant, and they’ve always frightened him, a little. Everything happens so fast, in a car. The world rushes by the windows. The peddles, and the gears, and the wheel that all move at once.

He tried driving, once, back when one of his human acquaintances bought a machine, in the nineteen-twenties. His friends had laughed themselves silly at the attempt, then patted him gently on the shoulder and told him perhaps he should wait until the next invention. They hear that aircraft are coming along in leaps and bounds.  He never tried again, after that. 

He’s in a car now, though; leaning against the back window, staring out into the night, watching the lights and sounds of London smear past, in the rain. He’s on his way across town and they’re moving fast. But that’s okay, tonight. He needs to move fast, tonight. There is fear roiling inside of him and he needs to arrive at his destination soon. He needs to check in. Needs to make sure someone is safe. 

Drops of water on the windows break up the patterns of Soho, making it appear like an impressionist painting. The angel misses the impressionists. He misses the hopeful way they broke the world down, into colour - thought it was a damn sight more beautiful than realism. But now it is photography, he reminds himself. The capture of a splintered instance of reality, the world from one angle, in one second. It’s an extension of surrealism, in a way. Blink, and it’s gone. 

He stares up at the lurid red sign of a walk-up, as the taxi slows to let a pedestrian pass. The brothel seems busy, despite the holiday and lateness of the hour. Men are lounging against the lamppost below. Perhaps, they are hoping to catch a glimpse through the windows. Perhaps, they are waiting for their friends to reemerge. The angel picks out details of their faces, before the taxi pulls away. They are no more than thirty years old. They’ll be gone in another thirty, he thinks - lungs shot from smoke, livers shot from booze, hearts shot from all that hearts can find, in the darkness of the city. 

So fragile. 

So temporary.

_ It was never made to last forever. _

The taxi moves on, taking him past the Colony and south, towards wider streets, past the pink sign of a piano bar, and the flashing lights of a sex shop.  There are figures of indiscriminate intentions lurking along the corners, talking with each other, laughter clouding in the coldness of the air. A drunk is vomiting behind the back wheels of a red Nova, where the owner will undoubtedly step in it, tomorrow morning. The vomiter could be a genius artist or a career alcoholic. The aura is hard to read, through the haze of booze. 

They hit Shaftesbury Avenue and stream out, along it, the angel wrapping his fingers into the plastic textured panel of the door for comfort as the driver runs an amber light. The roads are surprisingly busy. It’s two am on Christmas Day, Aziraphale marvels. How can there possibly be so many people still around? But the world is so full of people, now, and London especially so. 

The driver takes the junction. The angel grips the door more tightly. 

It’s all far too fast. Usually, he would expend some miracle to get himself where he needs to be, but he can’t, tonight. Tonight, he needs to get to Mayfair, and that is the one place he cannot leave a trail. Not when Crowley has finally taken up permanent residence, there. He cannot risk leaving a trace of himself where the demon lives, but he also cannot risk not checking in on the demon. Not when his sources say that things might be afoot. He needs to know his friend is still there.

.

It takes less than six minutes from the main road to the block of flats. The angel is gripping the door almost painfully as they draw up - having just experienced his driver’s approach to one-way roads. 

“Here we are, then!” 

The human seems far too proud that they have made it in once piece. 

Thanking him profusely, the angel pays up and staggers out of the vehicle, closing the door behind him. He’s glad to be on solid ground again, (though he does leave a large tip. The man had been chatting cheerfully away about his young family and the angel thought times must be hard, for him to be parted from them, at Christmas). 

Raising a hand in thanks, the driver speeds off along the street, still facing the wrong way, and Aziraphale is left standing on the pavement, craning his neck to look up at the buildings on either side of him. 

He’s not entirely sure where to go, next. He knows Crowley lives somewhere in this little collection of flats, because he’s heard the demon give the address to a taxi, at the end of the night, but he doesn’t have a door number. He can sense Crowley’s magic in the air, but he doesn’t want to use his own to try and identify exactly where the entrance to his lair is. He can’t risk putting this place on Heaven’s radar - or leaving signs of himself where Hell might find them.

The only other option is the doorman, the angel thinks, eyeing the light in the building’s entrance hall. Which is potentially problematic. Foremost, because it’s two in the morning on Christmas Day, and he has no real reason to be here. 

Giving a sigh, the angel steps forwards and presses a finger against the round button under the intercom and draws the man’s attention. Behind the glass door of the atrium, the man looks up, scans Aziraphale, and reaches under the desk to release the door, letting the angel inside. 

Thank God for the fact that he actually looks like a used book seller, Aziraphale thinks. If someone had seen Crowley standing outside their door, in the dead of night, he doesn’t suppose the demon would have received the same welcome. 

The doorman looks appropriately suspicious, however, as he arrives the desk. 

“Hello,” the angel tries for a winning smile. It doesn’t take, so he slides it sideways into something apologetic, instead. “Merry Christmas. I’m here to see a friend. I was supposed to be staying with him, but i’m afraid my flight’s only just got in and I’m terribly late. I don’t want to buzz up and wake him, but I do have a key,” he pulls a door key from his pocket. It’s his own, but he shows it for only the briefest of moments, and the gamble seems to pay off. The doorman looks slightly less suspicious. “The problem is,” he continues, “I can’t actually remember which number he is. Would you mind terribly pointing me in the right direction? It’s Anthony Crowley that I’m looking for.” _Anthony_. He’s never figured out why, in Heaven’s name, Crowley went for Anthony, but there we go. “If you need to call up, you can give my name as Mr A Fell.”

The mention of his name clears the frown clear off the doorman’s face. 

“Ah! No need, sir. You’re on his list of trusted contacts,” he chirps - thoughts of having to recount this interaction to the police, clearly fleeing his mind. “He’s up on the top floor. Only flat up there. Just take the second lift, on the left.” He smiles, points, and adds, “Merry Christmas, sir.” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale stares at him for a moment, wrong-footed by how smoothly this has gone. Has he performed some minor miracle without meaning to? But no, he can’t have done. His name must actually be on a list of trusted contacts, with Crowley’s doorman. “Right.” He pulls on a smile, and gives the man a nod, moving off down the corridor. “Thank you. Merry Christmas!”

_Trusted contact._

He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised, really. He is a contact. They do trust one another. Perhaps, it’s just because he’s always considered Crowley’s home to be something that falls within Hell’s remit. But that’s not entirely correct, he reminds himself. This place is no more Hell’s than his bookshop belongs to Heaven. They are places of Earth, carved out by the two of them as personal sanctuaries. Somewhere to rest. Somewhere to return to. Something they can call home, even if only in a temporary sort of way. 

He reaches the lift, punches in the call button, stares at the reflective metal surface of the door. 

Perhaps it's just the fact that Crowley has never asked him back, here, then - that he’s never given him a door number or volunteered information on this aspect of his personal life. Aziraphale wonders if giving his name as an emergency contact was something the demon did a long time ago, for a purpose, and forgot to rectify. Or, maybe, something he did in hope of it being relevant, in the future. 

He swallows. 

It’s really very hard to say what he and Crowley are to one another, these days. 'Everything and nothing’ is perhaps the closest explanation. They see one another regularly, now they’re both based permanently in London. Every month or so, at least. They live within twenty minutes’ walk of one another. They go out to dinner a couple of times a year and sometimes share a bottle of wine, lounging in the soft chairs at the back of the angel’s bookshop. They’re friendly. They share space, and stories, and time. 

They make a bit of a point of not touching, though. A pat on the arm, or a handshake when they meet, is about as far as they go, now. Aziraphale is fairly sure the demon has laid down some unspoken line, between them, because it’s certainly not him who is enforcing the distance. There have been numerous times, over the past forty years, when his will power has slipped away, all the reasons why they shouldn’t seek comfort in one another becoming nebulous, and he’s reached out to his friend. But Crowley is always careful to be a little too far away, in those moments. It’s almost as if he spots them coming and makes himself scarce. 

Aziraphale steps into the lift as it arrives, pressing hurriedly at the button for the penthouse. The distant panic is back, now that he is in proximity to his destination. He can vaguely feel Crowley - but he’s not sure if it’s just his lingering magic, around the place. He doesn’t know if the demon is actually here. And he really needs him to be. He needs to know he’s okay. He cannot wait until morning, or until the demon next resurfaces, swaggering into his bookshop as if there had been a plan to for him to be there. 

_Hey, angel, want to grab a bite to eat? There’s a new place, in Kensington. I hear they do unremarkable things to oysters, but the steak's not bad, and the wine list is excellent._

Aziraphale swallows. 

It’s been a horrible day and he’s fresh from Heaven, fresh from a visit to his masters - freshly back into the world and looking at it with new eyes. It’s all so fragile, so temporary. It will all end, one day. And the thought of it ending has terrified him. He’s scared and alone, and he needs his friend. Needs to make sure he’s okay. 

The lift seems to take an eon to climb to the eight floor, then to slowly open its doors. 

Arriving into the narrow hall, the angel steps quickly out and over to the only door on the landing, rapping it three times before he even pauses to think. He’s glad of this, in retrospect, because the second-guessing starts as soon the silence of the building is broken. 

_Oh dear. Should he really have come here? What if Crowley is away? What if he’s not, but there are other demons here, too?_

His counterpart always said that Hell tried to avoid this place, and Aziraphale can feel the wards around the place are undisturbed, but he cannot know for sure. He could stretch out his powers, he thinks, feel for the presence of other demons - but then that might leave a mark on the place, and he cannot risk that. It would be quite counterproductive when he’s come here to check on Crowley’s welfare. He can’t put the demon in danger. 

_Oh, why is he taking so long to answer?_

Footsteps announce a presence on the other side of the door. 

Aziraphale’s stomach does a strange twisty thing, inside of him. A swooping feeling of relief and apprehension, all bound together. Because those footsteps sound like Crowley’s. The upsurge of magic in the air feels like Crowley. But he needs to see him, to be sure.

Behind the door, the footsteps stop. There’s a brief pause. 

The angel wonders if the demon is looking through the peep hole, to confirm that it is him. The Aziraphale Crowley knows wouldn’t just turn up, in the dead of night, after all. 

His friend seems to be happy with what he confirms, however, because the next thing the angel hears is a series of deep clicking noises, as the physical locks of the door are thrown, accompanied by the sound of a chain being drawn free from its latch. As the doorknob begins to turn, he feels a shift of magic in the air, too - a great, stretching, springing sensation. The wards that seal the place are peeling free, leaving just enough space for an angel. 

The door opens. 

“Angel?”

Crowley stands in the gap, frowning in the light from the hallway. He’s tousle haired, with a few creases marked out on one cheek, his eyes halfway to human and sunglasses clutched loosely in one hand. He’s wearing pyjamas and one sock and, for some reason, seeing that makes emotion well up within Aziraphale until he can barely breathe. 

_ Crowley’s here. He’s okay. _

The angel swallows, opens his mouth, doesn’t know what to say. 

“What’s wrong?” The demon frowns. Because of course something would be wrong, for Aziraphale to be here. It’s not something they do - turn up at one another’s homes, in the dead of night. 

That is not the way their relationship works, the angel thinks. They don't just turn up because they want to. They can’t give one another keys and slip into one another’s homes when they return from a job, late night. They can’t crawl into bed behind one another and mould themselves together, for comfort, whenever they’ve had a hard day. They’re not made for that. Not meant for that. Shouldn’t even be capable of wanting that. 

“Hi,” he says, lamely. 

“What’s up?” The demon squints around the hall, checking that there’s nobody else there, perhaps wondering if Aziraphale has not under duress. “What are you doing, here? How did you even find this place?”

“Doorman let me in,” the angel mumbles. It’s not really an answer, but it’s good enough for right now. He doesn’t mention the thing about him being one of Crowley’s ‘trusted contacts’. He can’t really bear to go into that. “I needed to see you. I heard some things and I needed to check that you were okay.”

There is overwhelming love and relief flowing through him, even though Crowley’s forehead is contracting into a deep series of frown lines. 

Crowley is here. Crowley is fine. Not recalled, or reassigned. The end might be coming, somewhere on the near horizon, but Crowley is okay, tonight. And, for a beautiful ten seconds or so, that’s all that matters in the world. 

Aziraphale lets out a heavy breath. 

The demon’s frown deepens. 

“What’s happened? Are you okay? Is it my lot or yours?” The demon glances again around the corridor, then takes half a step towards him. “What’s wrong, angel?”

“Kind of a long story,” Aziraphale admits, sheepishly. “I’m not injured,” he adds, reassuringly. “And we’re not in danger. Not immediately, anyway. I just…” he flusters a little, “needed to see you.”

Crowley’s eyes narrow slightly. 

“At three in the morning?”

Aziraphale lets out a slow breath. 

“Yes…”

“Right.”

There is a long silence, then the demon heaves a heavy sigh and steps back from the doorframe, rubbing a hand over his face. 

“Well,” he grumbles, motioning for Aziraphale to step through. “You’d better come in, then.”

“Thank you.”

The angel steps into the flat on front of the demon and stares around at the view the hall light affords him. It’s not much. There is a long corridor, pale walls, and very little in the way of decoration. Then, Crowley closes the door with a snap and they are plunged into darkness. The sound of the locks clicking back into place is oddly ominous. 

Aziraphale swallows, trying not to jump when he feels the demon brush past him, moving back along the corridor.

“This way,” Crowley mumbles. “Excuse me not putting the lights on, but I’ve been asleep for a while and it takes the eyes time, to adjust.” 

“Not a problem,” Aziraphale replies, forcing a cheerfulness into his tone which doesn’t quite cover the nerves. 

He’s here. In Crowley’s flat. In the dark.

Turning his head, he stares around and catches the iridescent sheen of eyes, and wonders how well his friend can see him. Probably perfectly well, he thinks, staring into the darkness where he thinks the demon is standing. Crowley's body is made to work in next to nothing. It’s why the brilliance of the sun can be so painful. 

“Here,” a hand slides out from the darkness and warm fingers push into his palm. Aziraphale closes his hand around them, reflexively - sensation chasing up his spine. “This way.”

He allows himself to be tugged along through the dark, down the hall, through the faint outline of an open doorway into a wider space. Crowley’s fingers slip out from inside his as they step inside, and he hears the demon pad away across some hard flooring. Then, there is the faint noise of a switch being thrown, and dim lamplight spills across the wide expanse of a kitchen. 

“That light enough for you?”

Aziraphale blinks. Nods.

It’s enough to see the outline of an enormous fridge, and black countertops, grey tiled floors and a very expensive looking oven. Thin neon letters mark the time on the front of a microwave and a few bottles of oil are stacked against the back wall of the hob, but the rest of the surfaces are bare. There are neat stacks of plates on the open shelves. Neat rows of glasses. Neat, identical implements, in the drawer that the demon opens, to grab hold of a spoon. Not a speck of dust to be seen.

Crowley moves over to a kettle, flicks in on. The water comes instantly to the boil. 

He’s probably never bothered with finding out how the thing should work, the angel thinks, watching his friend select two mugs from another cupboard of neat, identical crockery, and pouring hot water into them, on top of a tea bag. Crowley has never had much patience for doing things the human way. But he does like gadgets. 

Padding over to the fridge, the demon selects milk, sets it on the counter next to the two steaming mugs, then closes the fridge door and turns to lean back against the worktop, arms folded over his chest, watching Aziraphale as he waits for the tea to brew.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, then?”

There’s a little edge to his voice. He’s never happy after being woken, and he looks as if he were deep in sleep, before Aziraphale arrived. The pyjama bottoms are creased and worn in, but the top looks as if it has been thrown on, to answer the door. The collar is slightly turned up, around the back of the neck. The angel feels a strong urge to reach out and fix it, and has to fold his hands behind him, to prevent himself from doing so.

“Well, I’ve been doing a spot of work with the Secret Service-,” he starts, deciding that further intro is rather beside the point when the crux of the matter is so important. 

“Naturally. Your first foray into espionage having been such a _resounding_ success.”

“-and I ended up in a bit of a horrible situation, this afternoon, involving a missing submarine and rather a lot of tension over the state of a nuclear warhead.”

Crowley’s eyes, which had been roaming over his attire, fix sharply on his eyes. 

“A warhead?”

“An intermediate range ballistic missile,” the angel clarifies. “I don’t know what type. They’re always changing the names, but it sounded capable of quite a bit of damage and there were a few hours where nobody was sure who had their hands on it and whether or not there would be repercussions, from over the Atlantic.” 

“A few hours?”

“Yes,” the angel twists his fingers over one another. For a moment, he’s back in a stiflingly warm room, in a concrete tower block, in Lambeth, surrounded by sweating humans and tension that could have been cut by something markedly less sharp than a knife. 

It was a side project, a rare foray into human affairs on a grander scale than he usually works. It’s not Aziraphale’s thing, really, political intrigue. He had sort of slipped into it while working on altering the course of a single human - a young man, who he hoped to steer into a path for leadership, one day. The young man had become embroiled in it all, however, and the angel had sort of been dragged along, for the ride. He’d never expected to play witness to such an event. He’d never expected to feel so unsure, in that moment, about what he was meant to do.

“There was a space of about half an hour where I was fairly sure they were going to war again,” the angel tells the demon, looking down at the fingers he is twisting together. “Only this war would not be like the wars, before. This war would have taken most of humanity with it. Scorched the Earth. Burned the skies.”

“But they didn’t.”

“No.” He lets out a long breath. “There had been intelligence about the Russians capturing some hardware - that was what had got everyone up in arms - but it turned out to be nothing to do with the missing submarine. It reappeared a few hours later, having suffered a comms outage, and all the panic abated.” He presses a thumb into an index finger, remembering the relief that had flowed through him, at not having to make a choice. “But, for half an hour, or so, I really thought they really were going to do it. I thought they were going to call it an act of war and the Americans were talking about reciprocal response. Everyone is in such a state of tension over the whole ‘Able Archer’ business, last month,” he marks the quotations with his fingers, then internally chides himself. 

The demon’s eyes drop down to his hands, then back up to his face, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“I just…” Aziraphale stares blankly ahead, for a moment. “I was just standing there, not sure what I was supposed to do. Not sure if I was supposed to do anything, or… just let it play out.”

Crowley shifts from one foot to the other, then seems to remember that he’s making tea.  He turns from the angel, checks the cups, then begins to pick the teabags out of the water using his fingertips. (He shouldn’t, the angel thinks. It’s far too hot. He’ll burn himself dreadfully). Tossing them onto a plate that wasn’t there before, the demon adds milk, stirs with the spoon, then picks one mug up and hands it over to Aziraphale. 

“What would you have done?” He asks, sounding a little apprehensive. “If the submarine hadn’t reappeared?”

This is a little beyond the normal scope of their involvement in one another’s work. Even in the days of The Arrangement, they never questioned one another’s motivations. A task was a task. Temptation or blessing, the higher purpose was decided beyond their pay grade. They could chose how something was done, but not question why. It was beyond the likes of a demon and an angel to question The Plan.

But individual human acts had never had the potential to wipe out such vast scores of life, before. The world is different, now. It’s bigger, louder, more colourful, more dangerous. There is something exponential about the way it’s moving. An acceleration towards some end point. 

“Honestly? I don’t know…” Aziraphale looks down. “I really don’t know.”

“Would you have stopped them from pressing the button? Caused the missile not to launch?” Crowley frowns a little, leaning back against the worktop. “I suppose a detonation underwater, at sea, would have less dire consequences than one over a city.”

“Still dreadful, though.” 

“Yeah.”

They stand for a minute, Aziraphale staring into his tea. It’s exactly the right level of brewed, with exactly the right amount of milk. He doesn’t take sugar, though he does in coffee. Crowley always remembers. 

_You know me. You know me so well._

“Well, it all sounds rather upsetting,” the demon offers, after a minute or so has passed. He’s trying for comforting but it comes across as slightly awkward. Aziraphale appreciates the effort anyway - far more so than he would a more adept technique, by anyone else. 

“That’s not all of it,” he admits. “After I finished there, I had to go up and report about it, as it fell outside the scope of my normal duties.”

Golden eyes dart between his own. 

“What…” he nods his head up, towards the ceiling. “ _Up_ , up?”

“Yes.” 

Gripping the mug between his hands, the angel lifts it to his lips, takes a small sip. It’s steaming, in the cool air of the flat, but it’s not too hot. It’s perfect, actually. The magic that the demon has subconsciously used, to boil the water, is laced through it - far better than sugar. It’s like he’s drinking part of his friend in. 

He allows himself to remember drinking Crowley in, for a moment, lets the memory of the sensation trail through his brain. The five times he’s kissed Crowley, scattered throughout history; soft mouth against his, hard fingers, warm lips, sweet tongue. His eyes slide over Crowley’s face, arresting temporarily on his mouth. In moments like these, where his mind is scattered in confusion and his anxious body is craving comfort, it’s hard to remember why they don’t do that anymore. 

“And?” Crowley’s mouth says. 

“Oh,” the angel gives himself a little shake. “Sorry, it’s been a very long day. May I sit?” He asks, motioning towards one of the kitchen stools. They are very modern looking, all metal and sharp angles. 

Crowley gives a little shrug and watches as he walks over, sliding uncomfortably onto a seat. They both know the movement is more to gather himself than because his legs are tired, but the demon allows him the pretence. 

Pulling his tea back in, to his chest, the angel takes a steadying breath. 

“I went to see Micheal.”

“ _Ugh_.”

“And I told her all about it, and she said I did the right thing in holding back - that there will be more situations like this, in the coming years, and that we should try not to interfere. The plan will not allow for things to end before the appropriate time.”

“So, you did the right thing?”

Aziraphale frowns. 

“Well, I suppose, but that’s not the worrying bit. She said something odd, after that. Something about it not being long, now.”

“About what not being long?” 

“Well, that’s what I asked.” Aziraphale takes another sip of tea, lets the trace elements of Crowley’s magic flow into him, lets them restore him. “She told me that there are plans already being put into motion, pawns being moved around, things that will contribute towards the end. She says she has received information, from your side,” the angel throws Crowley a glance, “that things are already afoot. That they will involve my opposite number.”

“Well…” the demon’s face has frozen, eyes slightly narrowed, lips slightly parted, a singular frown line slicing through the space of his forehead. “That’s news to me.” 

For a microsecond, Aziraphale wonders if he is lying. Then, he feels like hitting himself over the head, for the thought. What the Hell would Crowley have to gain, by lying about this - and since when did Crowley lie to him? The demon has never done that. Not about the things that matter, anyways. Not even when the truth has hurt him. For all his chaos and his natural tendency towards secrecy, and all the times that Aziraphale has pushed him away, Crowley has always been a good friend. 

The angel looks away, stares at the fridge for a bit. 

“Did she say who she got the information from?” His counterpart asks, after a short silence. “Because there’s a good chance it’s just one of my lot, spreading nonsense around for the pure Hell of it. Demons tend to do that,” he admits, with a shrug that shifts his weight over one hip. 

There is the tiniest sliver of skin on show along one side of his pyjama bottoms. 

“She didn’t say,” Aziraphale admits. 

“Well, it’s probably nothing, then. Just one of my guys name dropping to frighten one of Micheal’s guys.”

“But what if it isn’t?”

“It has to be.” He gives a little wave of his hand, as if he’s trying to shoo the thought away. “I've not heard anything about it, and all major topside operations are cleared through me.”

Aziraphale watches him, over the rim of his mug, feeling a strange dichotomy of emotion. Arousal and fear. Awe and apprehension. 

It is easy to forget that Crowley is Hell’s de-facto demon on Earth, that he is the Serpent of Eden, the instigator of original sin. It’s easy to forget the reason his friend gets to stay on the surface, when most demons spend their lives grovelling in the infernal pits, is because he’s earned it. Crowley was part of the rebellion. He flew to war against angels like Micheal and Uriel, against the Seraphim and the first angels, beside Lucifer himself. It is easy to forget that he holds a title and a position, in the ranks of Hell. Crowley might not be a political mover, but he does demand respect.

Aziraphale does not think, often, about what Crowley risks, to be near him - what he’d lose, if their friendship was discovered. It’s hard to compute, because the demon does not talk much about Hell and the angel has been programmed to think of anything infernal as undesirable. So, it’s easy to write off the risk. It’s easy to think of Crowley as coming into this with less to lose than he has. But that is not the truth of it, the angel thinks. He has a whole life, that he’s earned. He has a name, and respect, and a great degree of latitude as to how he conducts his business. He serves masters, but they are Dukes of Hell, (and it will take the end of the world to bring them topside, for long). Earth is pretty much his, to do with as he pleases. His domain. And he’s willing to risk it. For Aziraphale. 

In an outright battle, Crowley could just about hold his own against a guardian angel, Aziraphale thinks, eyes tracing over the fading creases on the demon’s cheek. He might not be as powerful as a Principality, or an Archangel, but he is clever and has unique skills. He can do things that even Aziraphale can’t. He can twist the laws of nature, bend perception, appear as he pleases. Crowley is pretty much the most dangerous non-celestial being on the face of the Earth. 

And Aziraphale has held him in his arms, and watched his mortal body shudder with ecstasy. 

_Fuck._

The angel closes his eyes, sets his tea down on the table. 

_He needs to get a grip!_

“Angel?” Crowley’s voice brings him back to the kitchen, where his tea is getting cold, and the world has just escaped disaster, and he’s feeling very scared and very needy, and very glad that the countertop he's sitting behind hides the way his body is halfway to erect, from just a few seconds of fantasy. 

He might be losing his mind, he thinks, rubbing his fingers over his face, then setting his palms down flat on the kitchen island, beside his mug. 

“Who would be the first to know, if something were to be happening?” He asks Crowley, surprised and glad to find his voice calm and quite collected. 

The demon shifts his weight, throwing his arms out, indignantly. 

“I would!” 

“Apart from you,” the angel clarifies, eyeing the demon.

“Honestly,” Crowley gives a little flick of his head, a little movement of irritation. “You know I spend most of my time doing bugger all, up here, but they don’t!” He indicates vaguely downwards. “They think I have scores of evil plans in motion. So, I get a briefing on all major Earth operations before they go down, just in case any of it interferes. If there's anything regional to Europe, or big enough to go global, I will hear about it.”

“But what if someone were intentionally cutting you out of the loop? You’ve said it yourself, before, you have enemies down there.” Crowley has not always played well with others. “What about Hastur?”

“Oh,” Crowley rolls his eyes, “Dagon would tell me if something was afoot, even if Hastur was trying to block me out of it. We have an understanding.” 

“Even after the whole penicillin business?”

A brief, worried expression passes over Crowley’s face. Then fades away. 

“Nah… I think they’ve probably forgotten about that. Besides,” he shrugs. “I’ve not done anything bad to Hastur in ages. Nothing he’ll be able to trace back to me, anyway.” His mouth twitches, slightly. “Oh, did I tell you about his latest project? He’s supposed to be causing some big outbreak of disease, over in Mexico, but I’ve got his number…” The demon’s grin slips wider. “I’ve convinced a couple of enterprising cartel-type chaps to dump their chemical waste into the sewers, and it’s going to annihilate all of the terrifying new strain of bacteria he was hoping to spread. I mean,” he gesticulates, in that so-Crowley way he has, long hands thrown out to the sides. “It's beautiful. They’re practically treating the effluent. He is going to be so pissed. And the best part is, I did actually mention the project. It was all in last month’s report, sandwiched in between a whole bunch of boring nonsense. So I’m not even in the wrong! _He’s_ the one who didn’t read the report properly.”

Aziraphale watches him, not entirely sure his friend has grasped the seriousness of what has brought them here, tonight. (Or, indeed, the concept of being in the wrong). The demon wearing a silly grin and rambling off on some tangent about how it’s not even pollution, really, because he’s got another bunch of lads, from another pharmaceutically-motivated group downstream, dumping another whole other load of chemicals into the same sewers and it’s all going to react, to make something mostly harmless. 

“Thank Someone for electrochemical reduction, eh? Doubt we’ll even end up with fish with too few eyes, or too many testicles, or whatever it was that happened in Russia when your lot tried to mess around with radiation for the first time.”

“I think it was double headed trout,” Aziraphale supplies, lamely. 

He’s got a familiar burning, low in his spine, and his mind is stewing in the knowledge that he’d rather be here, in Crowley’s kitchen, listening to the demon talk, than anywhere else in the universe. And that’s the core of the problem here, he thinks. If the end is coming, then there are finite years to spend, listening to Crowley ramble about the pointless mischief he gets up to while Hell thinks he’s spreading suffering across the face of the world. If the end is coming for Earth, then it’s coming for them, too. 

_He just always thought they’d have more time._

“Anyway, I’ll let you know how it all pans out,” Crowley says, smiling to himself as he takes a sip of tea. “Should be a good one.”

“You do realise that taunting Hastur will, one day, lead to repercussions?”

“Ohhh, he’s not got the imagination to think up anything truly horrible,” the demon yawns and gives a little stretch. “Besides, he has his patch and I have mine. It’s only when we cross over that there’s an issue. And he’s such a twat,” he adds, as if this settles the matter. 

They sit and stand for a bit longer, drinking their tea. It’s only when they get to the very bottom of it that Aziraphale feels bold enough to push onwards. 

“What you will you do, when it eventually does happen?” He asks, shyly.

Crowley’s eyes snap up, from where he was picking at a loose thread, on the back of his sleeve. 

“Pardon?” 

“When the end come, do you have a plan?” 

His mind is on holy water - which the demon calls insurance, which the angel truly hopes is just a weapon, to protect himself in case of emergency. He wants to trust Crowley, that it’s not for his own destruction, but there’s this look that the demon gets, on the rare occasions they’ve talked about Armageddon, and he cannot help but wonder. He cannot help but fear. 

_He did the right thing, handing it over, didn’t he? He couldn’t have let the demon risk his life, going after it alone._

“I try not to think about the end too much, angel,” Crowley murmurs, across from him. His voice is a bit low, a bit warning. He doesn’t like this topic. They’ve never really broached further than this point, before. But Aziraphale needs to. He needs to know some things.

The angel takes a deep breath, then lets the next sentence out in one big rush.

“Crowley, I came here, tonight, because I was terrified that something had been set in motion and you hadn’t told me. I thought you might have been reassigned, or recalled, or something, and I’d… I’d never see you again.”

Crowley’s bright eyes waver on him, reflecting the lamplight. His hands are uncharacteristically still. 

“Does that sound like me?” He asks, voice just a little challenging. “Vanishing, without telling you?”

“No,” Aziraphale admits, “but you might not have had a choice. They might have turned up and taken you away.”

“They’d have a job of it…”

“There might have been lots of them.”

“They’d need a buttload. And at least one of the Dukes.”

“You’ve said it yourself, Crowley. You’ve made plenty enemies, down there.”

The demon’s eyes narrow, slightly. 

“I’d always find a way of letting you know, Aziraphale.” 

Crowley doesn’t actually use his name that often. He says it in warning, sometimes, and as punctuation, if the angel is being particularly obtuse. He whimpered it, that night they drew their bodies together, by the bay. But, for the most part, he just calls the angel ‘angel’. 

Aziraphale thinks that this must be a warning. 

“I know you would try,” he tells the demon, trying to soften the blow of his previous words. He hadn’t meant to insult Crowley. His thoughts are just spinning out of control. “I just keep thinking about all the ways in which it could happen, you know? About how they might have had things going for years and years and years before either of us know. You know how everyone can be about their own projects. People get possessive…” his eyes trace over the tousled waves of Crowley’s hair. “What would happen if they just came down, one day, and told us it was all over tomorrow? What happens if we don’t have the opportunity to plan, for what comes next?"

The demon looks down. Picks at his sleeve. 

“What do you mean ‘what comes next’, angel?” He asks, eventually. “Because - correct me if i’m wrong - I think that the very nature of a ‘final battle between good and evil’ will lead to one of us having very little to say, in what comes next.”

Aziraphale stares. 

He’s not sure how to answer, because he knows exactly what Crowley is expecting him to say, and it’s probably what rankles the demon most. 

He remembers Crowley's reaction to the glamour Aziraphale had performed on his eyes, to hide his identity, back in Ardennes. He remembers the way the demon had snapped, when he had asked about the scars left by the consecrated stone, on his feet. He remembers every time he has offered assistance, because he knows his power outstrips Crowley’s, and the demon has bit back at him - showed a little snake, a little venom. 

He doesn’t like to be seen as broken, or damaged.

He doesn’t want to be fixed. 

It’s why he snaps at Aziraphale, when the angel notes any kindness in him. The angel is sure he sees it as some reference to some whole thing that he could have been, some thing that he’ll now never be. Though it’s not - it has never been - what Aziraphale intended. 

He knows what Crowley is. Loves all the parts of him. Even the bits that don’t match up in the way the demon wants them to. He is damaged, but he is not lacking. His kindness is not some remnant of something he used to be. It is a part of him, something so integral to his identity that it has survived lifetimes of suffering. 

In the secret, most hopeful depths of his heart, Aziraphale believes that, after the war, there will be peace. And he believes that She will not allow the death of something that has even an ounce of good in it. And he believes that Crowley has far more than just an ounce of good. He is clever, and brilliant, and he has given so much to the world. His reasons have sometimes been morally questionable, and his methods are frequently disruptive and chaotic, but he can still create, he can still make beauty. And he can be so kind. 

He thinks of the demon holding the child to his skin, in Antioch. Thinks of how Crowley shifts, back and forth, between genders, between sexes, between bodies, between motivations and moralities.Crowley isn’t one thing. He cannot be excised from the universe because of one choice. It’s not fair. If God is fair, and the angel believes She must be, then She will not let something like Crowley be wasted into nothing. There must be a place for the demon, after the war. Perhaps, even forgiveness.

Aziraphale doesn’t want the world to end. He loves the humans and the Earth. He loves his life, here. But, if it has to end - and he knows that some day it will - he believes that there will be a future for Crowley beyond holy water, beyond eternal punishment, or discorporation, or death. And if there is, then perhaps there is a future for them, too. 

His thoughts must be written in his eyes, because the demon’s jaw has tightened slightly. 

_I don’t need you to fix me, Aziraphale._

The angel can almost hear him hiss it. 

“I just wanted to know if you had a plan,” he sighs, looking over at his friend. 

The demon holds his gaze for a long moment, then looks back down at his sleeve, picks again at the loose thread, there.

“At the moment, my plan is to keep this planet going for as long as possible. And to keep myself on its for as long as possible. The rest, I’ll figure out as I go along.”

“Right.”

“There’s no point in thinking about it any more than that,” Crowley adds, testily. “We don’t know any of the variables. No point in making a plan when you don’t know what you’re planning against.”

“I suppose not.”

“Ngh.”

They stand and sit for half a minute. 

“I doubt anything will happen for ages, anyway,” Aziraphale muses, out loud. He’s watching lamplight play along the edge of the demon’s collarbone, the shadow beneath it widening and narrowing in time with his breaths. “You know how long it takes, for everyone to get the right paperwork and approvals. It’s a nightmare. Do you remember when Gabriel told me they’d be doing the Messiah arc soon?” 

“Yeah. Scared us out of our wits. I went rushing back down, to tell everyone, and then nothing happened for three thousand years.”

“Yes.” 

“Sodding Gabriel…” Crowley winces. “I can still remember the bollocking I got, for that information being wrong.”

“Yes. I remember you telling me.”

He remembers the demon throwing wine in his face, actually. They’d had a proper little tiff about it. Crowley, newly returned to Earth, wrapped in a lithe female form, hair tangled around narrow shoulders, fire in those golden eyes. They’d been standing on a path between two little towns and there had been no one for miles. And they'd shouted. And then Aziraphale had offered a cup of wine from the best skin he had, as a peace offering, and Crowley had thrown it back, in his face. Told him he was an ass for feeding him bad information and if he ever did it again he'd have to worry about pissing in long grass for the rest of his Earthly days. Typical snake.

They’d made up, later. Sat beside a campfire. Drank the rest of the wine. 

That was nearly five thousand years ago, the angel thinks, staring at the lamplight that paints the long, sharp line of Crowley’s nose. Five thousand years before now, three thousand years before Gabriel’s prophesized messiah had been born to the world, under their watchful eyes, on a cold winter night, in the town of David. By that reckoning, they might only have three thousand years left. Less, if someone had managed to streamline the approvals process.

Would that be enough, Aziraphale wonders? He cannot even comprehend, anymore, what three thousand years will bring. The world is changing so rapidly. He doesn’t know what is going to come next. The Earth could be a very different place, in three thousand years. They could be very different people. 

They were different people two thousand years ago, on that hill, looking down over Bethlehem. There was no Christmas then, the angel thinks, turning his head to look out of Crowley’s kitchen window, over the view of the city. There were no colourful lights, or wreaths on doors, or pine trees, or hymns, or feasts, or songs, or candles. There were no gifts to be exchanged. No fires to sleep by.

Two thousand years ago, he and Crowley were friendly enough. They talked whenever they crossed paths. They shared a joke or two, and a bit of information - but they mostly just kept out of one another’s way. Aziraphale had liked the demon, but there had been nothing more to it than that. There had been nothing like this push-pull thing between them, now. This relentless, magnetic draw, pulling them forwards through time, together. That had grown later.

What if, over the next three thousand years, they fall back into that other place? What if this is only a temporary condition? What if Crowley is already heading that way, the angel thinks? It has been so many years since they have touched…

Aziraphale looks back over at the demon, feels need filling him up, burning through his reservoirs of will power. 

_I don’t know what to do._

“You’ll tell me, won’t you?” He asks his counterpart, voice small. “At the first sign of anything, from your side?”

Crowley looks up from his fidgeting and does that thing where he hangs his head slightly to one side, his expression long-suffering, but doesn’t speak.

“I just want to be ready,” Aziraphale presses. 

A muscle twitches in the demon’s jaw, then he pushes himself off the counter and walks over, to stand by Aziraphale’s side. The collar of his pyjama shirt is still turned up. The bottoms are too loose. The angel can see a little sliver of belly as Crowley comes to a halt beside him, cocking a hip and folding his arms over his chest. 

“I’ll tell you. I promise. You’ll be the first to know.”

“Right.” 

With him sitting up on the stool, the distance between their eyes is almost eliminated. Aziraphale is staring straight into those pools of molten gold, straight into wide ovals of pupil, and there is love pouring out of Crowley in waves. 

Aziraphale had initially wondered, when he told the demon that he could sense emotion, back in that chilly Belgian hospital, if Crowley would make an effort to mask it, from then on. But the demon did not. The emotion he projected changed, over time, as emotions always do, but the strength and complexity has only increased. And the demon doesn’t hide it. He might temper the expression it leaves behind, on his face, but the love is always there, beneath the surface. Between them. Mixing with his magic. Mixing with his scent. Bathing in it is still an intoxicating experience. 

“How long were you asleep, before I woke you?” The angel asks the demon, mouth slightly dry with the knowledge of what he is about to do. 

“Couple of weeks." 

“Goodness.” He licks his lips. “That’s a long time. I couldn’t sleep for that long. Have never been able to.”

“It’s an acquired skill.”

“What’s the longest you’ve slept for, before?”

“Many many months.”

“My… Did you intend to sleep that long, this time?”

“No. Just one or two.”

“Are you trying to hibernate, through the winter?”

“Something like that.”

“Do you know what day it is, today?” 

Crowley lifts one wrist, showing off his watch - something black, and sleek, and modern, and undoubtedly very expensive. The date is displayed in tiny numbers, to the side of the time. Twenty fifth of December.

“Yup.”

The angel allows a brief pause. 

“…Did you get me anything?” 

The demon shakes his head.

“Nope.”

“Oh.” He’d kind of been hoping for that. “Me neither.” His heart is beating very fast, now. His tongue feels like sandpaper. “We used to let one another sleep by the fire, if that was the case, didn’t we?” 

Crowley is watching him with dark, unrelenting eyes. 

“Yes, we did.” 

“Do you think…” the angel trails off, swallows. _Oh, he really shouldn’t be doing this…_ “Do you think that I could stay here, tonight?” 

The demon continues to watch him for a very long moment. There’s a searing, desperate note to the love that’s flowing out of him. Then, he lets out a long breath and it abates slightly. 

“Probably not the best idea,” he says, gently. 

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s heart sinks back down, through his stomach, to settle somewhere in the burning puddle of need in his abdomen. It might drown down there, he thinks, staring up into Crowley’s eyes. Might be the best thing for him. He’s utterly failing at everything else, at the moment. “Okay.” 

The demon’s gaze softens, moving towards a deeply fond expression. 

“Sorry, angel," he says, quietly. 

“You have absolutely nothing to apologise for,” the angel whispers back. His voice and his body feel suddenly very small in Crowley’s huge, expanse of a kitchen. He feels very foolish. He can feel his cheeks and the tips of his ears, burning red. “I should never have asked. You’re right. It is a terrible idea.”

“You can have a hug, if you like, before I drive you home?” 

He looks up. 

A hug? They’ve never really done that, before. They’ve never been ones for sharing an embrace, even in the early days of exploring this strange thing between them. They sort of skipped over that part. Probably because it is a display of mutual need and trust, the angel thinks, eyes sweeping his friend’s familiar face. It is an intimate thing, to offer your body over - to be folded into someone’s chest, over their heart - like an extension of holding hands. 

_Here, be next to me. Be next to this most fragile, most integral part of me. Feel life beat, in me. Let me feel life beat, in you._

“Yes,” he murmurs. “That would be nice.”

“Okay.”

Crowley steps forwards and pulls him wordlessly, effortlessly, into his chest. 

The movement is somehow not awkward, even though they’ve never done this before. There’s something natural to it. Something instinctive. Hands rising of their own accord, Aziraphale wraps himself around his friend’s middle, and lets his head fall forwards, against the demon’s shoulder. He takes a deep breath of Crowley, letting the scent of the demon fill his lungs, smelling sandalwood and cedar. Something slightly burned. Something slightly sweet. 

_Something kind. Something beautiful._

Contentment washes over him. The hard and soft of their chests is pushed together. Crowley is warm, and very solid against him. He can feel the repetitive slam of the demon’s mortal heart, bounding away, beneath those ribs - beneath the muscle, and the flesh, and the silk that he’s wearing on top of his skin. He feels so alive, Aziraphale thinks, flattening his palms against the back of him, feeling the lean columns of muscle there, each side of his spine. So reassuringly present. 

There’s always been something about Crowley that shines through his physical form. An energy that isn’t human, isn’t of this Earth. It’s what frightens animals and makes humans shy away. It’s that feeling that you get when you’re staring into the night sky and you become suddenly, potently aware of the scale of it all. That falling into the void of it all. That staring into the heart of some distant star. That _other_ energy. 

_Demon. Snake. Other._

Crowley has had to be so many things and worn so many faces. But he’s survived all of it and he’s choosing to risk it all by being here. He’s always been the stronger of the two of them, Aziraphale thinks, pushing his face into the crook of the demon’s neck. The one willing to walk across a battlefield, or into a church, to protect them. The one to offer of himself, before risking damage to the angel. And he’s offered time and time again. His magic, his body, his soul. 

He offers an embrace, tonight, because a hug is a love thing, but not a mates thing - not a partners thing, a paired thing. He wants that, though. Aziraphale can feel it in him. He wants all the things they can do for one another. He’s wanted them for a very long time. But now he wants more than that, too. He wants a home. He wants a world where he can be chosen for what he is. And Aziraphale cannot give him those things. Not yet. 

_One day_ , the angel thinks, pressing into him.

And he doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what to think. He doesn’t want the world to end, because this is their world - but what if that’s what it takes, to bring them together? But then what if his hopes are in vain? What if there is no happy ending for them? What if a demon is forever cursed? What if an angel can never disobey? What if the holy water, or their enemies, or those who are meant to be their friends, take the chance to find out from them?

_Oh, please be safe, my love._

Crowley shifts his grip, winding long fingers into his hair, pressing a cheek into the top of his head. 

“Merry Christmas, angel,” he mutters, softly. 

They stand and sit like that for a full minute, wrapped tightly around one another, bodies revelling in the contact. Then, giving the angel a gentle squeeze, the demon begins to extricate himself. 

Aziraphale does very little to help, truth be told. He only properly lets go when Crowley takes a step backwards, out of reach. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, feeling a little surge of embarrassment once that they are facing one another, again. Embarrassment for a lot of things; for coming here, tonight, for bringing the end-times up, for asking to stay, for always being the one who pushes forwards, who steps away, who never knows what to do. Who moves too slow. 

“S’okay. It’s Christmas, isn’t it?” Crowley shrugs, and there’s a hint of a tease in the way he tilts his head, eyeing the angel - but it’s not a bad tease. It’s more of a laughing-with-him sort of tease. “People do these sorts of things, at Christmas.” 

It’s a little reference to all of their previous excuses. All of the stolen kisses and gifts, and nights spent sleeping on front of one another’s fires. All of the times Aziraphale has used the season of good cheer to his slight advantage. Like he tried to, tonight. 

The angel winces. 

“Sorry about that.” 

The corner of the demon’s mouth gives a twitch. 

“To be honest, i’m a little impressed,” his golden eyes flicker playfully. “Kind of a smooth move from you, angel. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

The angel rubs his hands over his face. 

“Mmh. Maybe you should drive me home.” 

“I think I should,” Crowley clicks his fingers and his pyjamas are instantly replaced by black trousers, a black jacket, and a black shirt. He looks down at his feet. He’s still only wearing one sock. Frowning, he clicks his fingers again and is wearing boots. Kicking one against the other, he clearly decides that they’ll do, and shoves a hand into his pocket, fishing out a set of keys. “Bookshop, then?” He asks, motioning towards the door. 

As they begin to walk towards it, he is already slipping dark glasses onto his face, shielding those golden eyes from sight.

“Yes.” The angel straightens his waistcoat. “And…” he grimaces, then rolls his eyes and continues anyway. He’s already made enough of a tit of himself. Might as well add this to the night’s offences. “Maybe go the long way, around the park? They’ve got Christmas lights up.”

“Anywhere you want to go, angel,” the demon yawns, leading him down the hall and out the door, locking up behind them with a wave of his hand. 

.

He drives Aziraphale back to the bookshop after a slow revolution of the park, then a detour around several of the fancy streets surrounding it. Great white stone houses, with towering trees in the windows and chandeliers decked in garlands. Sitting in the passenger seat, Aziraphale watches the lights twinkle in the shimmering cold of the air, keeping the window down, so his breath doesn’t fog up the glass. It’s cold, but it’s worth it, for the view. And Crowley keeps the heaters on full, so his feet stay warm. The demon drives slow, to give the angel time to soak it all in. 

Arriving back at the bookshop, they sit at the curb, for a moment, ending idling. 

Somewhere, nearby, a small group of humans are wandering home, slurring a Christmas carol. Aziraphale listens to them retreat, thinking vaguely that any blessing he could bestow would be shallow in comparison with the feeling they hold inside them, right now. That together feeling. 

The demon reaches over, presses two fingers to his forearm. 

“You okay?” 

He looks up. Forces a smile. 

“I’ll be fine. It’s just been a jolly long day.”

“Well, here’s to many more, right?”

“Yes.”

They stare at one another a long moment. Then,

“Thanks for the lift.” He pulls at the door handle, then pushes the Bentley’s heavy door open, pausing to throw one last look around at the demon. “Goodnight, Crowley.”

“Night angel.”

Golden eyes watch him from behind tinted glass as he closes the door behind him and crosses the street, sliding through the door of the bookshop. He doesn’t hear the engine roar into life, to carry his friend away, until he has walked through to the back room and turned the little light on, flicking the switch on the kettle to boil some water. His water doesn’t boil instantaneously, like the demon’s. He likes doing it the human way. 

Opposites, he thinks. Push. Pull. Balance. 

Heaving a sigh, the angel picks up a book and sits down for the night.

.


	11. Oxfordshire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can only apologise for the angst. Next one's happy enough to choke on, though. Promise.

_6 months before the end of the world…_

Headlights light the way before them, two wide sweeps of gold, rising and falling with the camber of the road. Around them, everything is darkness. The moon is the tiniest sliver of a crescent and the thick trees at the edge of the road hide anything but a narrow strip of sky from view. The angel is talking about the end of the world again, and the demon is starting to find it hard to breathe.  


There’s a strange pressure in his chest, like he’s swallowed something too large, or his lungs are filling with poisonous gas.  He’s felt both things, before. One in his snakeform, the other during the war. The twenty eighth war he lived through. The third to last one. He’s not counting the war that is to come. He doesn’t want to think about that one. 

The stitching on the leather steering wheel is digging marks into his mortal skin with the pressure of his grip. The backs of his knuckles are white. There is a song playing softly over the speakers - something familiar, but not part of the car’s usual repertoire. He dropped a handful of cassettes into the side pocket that morning, when they set off, and the angel must have pushed a new one in, tired of his silence. It’s something thirty years old, maybe a bit older. He can’t place it, but he thinks he might have danced to it, once. In some dark space, in a time before the world was ending. 

It’s like his life on Earth is divided into two parts, now. The six thousand years leading up to that night, and the eleven years that have happened, since. A line separates the parts, a line drawn in thick, indelible ink. The air feels different on this side. It’s been caught in Crowley’s throat for over a decade, making his voice thin and his heart beat too fast, and sending frissons of anxiety up his spine whenever he stops for a moment - which he tries not to do. It’s easier just to keep going, to keep moving, keep driving, keep wiling and tempting, and dining with the angel every few months, to keep him updated on progress. He tries not to stop. When he does, he finds himself sitting on the side of his bed, staring into space, or drinking in some dive bar, until his thoughts are too sluggish to spin - or driving to the bookshop, just to idle by the curb, staring at the soft glow of the angel’s windows. 

Aziraphale must know he does that - stop by, without coming in. The angel can feel his magic, after all. He must know when Crowley is parked up, a few doors down, lurking because he cannot face having an excuse of a conversation but needs to be close. The angel has never come outside to confront him about it, though. Sometimes, he wanders past the door and flicks the little sign on the door to ‘open’ - a quiet invitation - but he never comes out and asks Crowley in, directly. He seems to understand what the demon doesn’t about the situation. That, sometimes, a person can need space and closeness at the same time. 

It isn’t safe, to spend too much time together, now. There are more eyes on Earth than ever. They meet in pre-arranged, pre-warded spaces, to exchange information, but never just for social contact. There’s plausible deniability in a demon parking on the dark streets of Soho, however, late on a Saturday night. There are plenty of souls open for temptation, there, in the bars and clubs. Plenty of bodies he can drive to sin. The district provides ample fodder for demonic excuses. Which is ironic, really, considering he’s there to see an angel. 

They drive on, through the right. 

The road curves, sweeping around to the right, past a small farmhouse with coloured lights in the window and an illuminated Santa Claus in the garden. Christmas again, the demon thinks. It always seems to be Christmas. The years are slipping through his hands. 

It makes his heart lurch faster in his chest, his lungs squeezing a bit tighter. 

Has the air got thinner? It feels that way. 

_It’s getting so hard to breathe…_

Then they are heading on, along a winding section of road, passing through a copse of trees. Aziraphale is still talking away, in the passenger seat, though his words aren’t penetrating the growing fog around Crowley's brain. He’s long lost track of the conversation. It’s something about the boy, and the party they have just left. Something about some evidence he has shown or good or evil. 

Good and evil. 

And Christmas. 

And only six months left, to go, now. Only six months, Crowley, can you believe it? (He can’t. It’s not long enough. It’s not nearly long enough!) 

The feeling in Crowley’s chest suddenly tightens, becoming vicelike. It is like a hand wrapping around the centre of him, around his heart and his lungs, squeezing. Squeezing, like his snakeform can squeeze up, through thecrust of the Earth. Squeezing, like his human hands can wring the life out of another creature. Squeezing, like the pressure of a lover, up against the wall in some great house; a chest against his back, and an arm around his shoulder, and a hand around his cock; warm breath, warm skin, warm mouth. Squeezing, like life coming into this world. Squeezing, like life slipping out of it.

He very nearly misses the apex of the next corner, sending them careening off, into the trees. It’s only a slight push of magic that keeps them connected to the road. Adrenaline shoots up his spine.

_Fuck._

His knuckles tighten. His chest tightens. And, suddenly, it’s too much. 

There’s a lay-by at the top of the hill. He pulls abruptly into it, causing the angel to inhale sharply and mutter his name. 

“What in Heaven’s name was that in aid of?” he chides, as the demon yanks the door open and throws himself out, the momentum of his body carrying him away from the car so fast that he nearly trips over his own long legs. 

“Nothing. Back in a second,” he mutters, somehow managing to keep himself upright as he walks off, towards the edge of the trees. 

The frosted ground crunches underfoot. 

The pressure in his chest is unbearable. There is a tinny ringing in his ears. All of his muscles feel as if they are tightening, stiffening, readying themselves for some terrible action. His breaths are coming far, far too fast. He’s panting. He feels dizzy, and suddenly very far away from the physical world around him - from the frozen undergrowth he’s moving through, from the frosted tendrils of last year’s brambles, which snap as he throws a hand out, to push them aside. 

The copse of trees gives way to a bare patch of ground, just out of sight of the main road. It is a high point, the land below falling steeply away. A field lies beneath the drop, lined by narrow hedges. Then another three fields after that. Rolling arable land and countryside, disappearing off, into the night, punctuated by clusters of black trees and the occasional smudge of golden light. Windows, the demon thinks, vaguely. Windows of houses, and farms, and cottages. They will be filled with humans, enjoying the final hours of Christmas day. 

Overhead, the sky is black, the moon too narrow to throw light. The stars stand out as if they are pinholes in some great blanket, held up on front of a brilliant light. Glimpses of another dimension through a mortal veil. 

_He cannot breathe._

Freezing air is rushing into his lungs but it seems to be going nowhere. His body is taut, his fingertips tingling, his heart rate racing far, far, far too fast. The ground is sloping away, before him, and he feels like he’s standing on some great precipice. He’s always had a fear of heights, ever since that first fall - and it feels as if the thirty feet, down to the field, is a gaping chasm. The world feels suddenly vast, and he feels very small and very trapped, inside his mortal shell. He doesn't think he could reach out for his powers, if he tried. He doesn’t think he could reach out for his wings. Everything is closing in.

He can no longer hear the car, idling in the distance, or the sound of the music playing. It’s just the rushing in his ears and the sound of his own breaths. 

“Crowley?”

The angel is there, at his shoulder, but Crowley is only dimly aware of him. It’s like his brain cannot compute it all - the incongruous sight of Aziraphale picking his way uneasily through the shrubbery, brushing bits of leaf and frost from his jacket, worry lining his face.

“What’s wrong, dear boy?”

“Nothing. Just needed a piss…” He can barely form the words. They’re slurring in his mouth. 

_There’s no air._

“Oh, come now,” the Angel chides. “You would have stayed by the roadside, if that was the case. You love nothing better than flirting with public indecency. Honestly, I remember the time-,”

But Crowley is not listening anymore. His eyes are closing. His breaths are coming faster, in rough panting gasps. They are filling his ears. Filling his world. Surrounding him. Suffocating him. And he still can’t get enough air-

-And then a hand is gripping him around the shoulder. And a palm is wrapping around his jaw. Two warm points in the endless cold dark. 

“Hey,”

He stumbles towards them, and is caught by something solid. Reaching out, his fingers find thick fabric and warm angel. He digs them in, anchoring himself, head falling forwards until his face is buried in Aziraphale’s hair. The collision is almost too hard. It hurts the bridge of his nose, but the scent of the angel is enough to slow the spinning of his mind. 

_Angel._

_Angel, angel, angel._

His thoughts begin to slow. The buzzing in his ears begins to fade. The acceleration of his heart, plateaus, leaving the the sound of his breaths very loud, in its absence - air sucking in, air rushing out - and then his breaths are calming, too.

“Hey,” a gentle voice murmurs, against his shoulder. There’s a hand against the back of his neck, cradling his head. “It’s okay…”

He takes a huge breath in, feels oxygen flood through his veins. 

“It’s okay, my dear…”

He lets all of the air out, again, as one long, shuddering sigh.

Sensation from the rest of his body is starting to fade back in. The ache in the muscles that move his ribs. The tension in his shoulders and spine. His arms are trembling, his fingers feeling weaker than usual, as they clutch fistfuls of the angel’s coat, to keep him upright. His legs feel as if they’ve run a marathon. They’re barely underneath him, but that’s okay, because Aziraphale is carrying most of his weight. 

The angel’s shoulders are solid. One of his hands is at Crowley's back, supporting him. The other is at his neck. Their torsos are pressed together - the demon’s heart thundering away into the front of his friend’s waistcoat.

“It’s okay…” the hand at his back presses harder, fingers spreading wider. “You’re okay.”

_I’m okay._

He doesn’t know if it’s true but he is alive, at least. He is still here, he thinks, experimentally tightening his fingers against Aziraphale’s sides. He hasn’t discorporated in panic. He gives a swallow. His throat feels very tight, but his lungs seem to be working again. His brain is working, too. There is oxygen flooding through him. And sensation is working. He can feel hot tears, slipping down his cheeks. 

“Fuck…” the word comes out all cracked and broken. 

“Crowley?” the angel sounds terrified. 

The demon blinks. More tears spill over. He lifts one hand from Aziraphale’s coat, swiping at them, palming them into his skin. 

He needs to stop this. He needs to get a grip on himself.

Still shaking, he pushes himself gently upright, gathering his legs underneath him. He looks away as he takes his own weight, stumbling half a step backwards. The angel continues to watch him, worry written in his every line. The gaze is hard to bear. Crowley wants to do something to allay that worry. Wants to rectify it. But, as soon as his shaking hands wipe some tears away, more spill out. 

He’s not cried like this in years, he thinks, rubbing the back of his hand over his face. It’s odd, really, because he used to cry all the bloody time. Whenever things got overwhelming or he got angry. He’s always been one for expressing his emotional state in a physical manner; by shouting, or swearing, or storming out on conversation, making loud, dramatic gestures. He appreciates the cathartic release of it. The last dozen years, however, he can’t remember crying at all. It’s like he’s been holding his breath all this time. Holding it all in. Waiting. 

“Fuck…” he whispers again, softly this time. Swipes at more tears. 

The release of finally letting this out, after over a decade, is so powerful that he cannot even find it in himself to be embarrassed, in the moment. That will come later, he is sure. But for now, all he can do is stand and breathe shakily into the night, watching his breath cloud in the frozen air.

Aziraphale does not ask him what’s wrong, but the hand which had been gripping onto his shoulder remains there, gently holding him even though there is now a good two foot of space between their bodies. His fingertips are solid, grounding - a gentle reassurance that he’s not going anywhere. 

Taking another few, steadying breaths, the demon lifts both of his hands and presses the palms of them into his face. Some tears roll down the inside of his left wrist, into the sleeve of his jacket.

“Fuck…”

“Just take a minute,” Aziraphale says, beside him. “It’s fine.”

But it isn’t, really, Crowley thinks. 

He doesn’t have a huge number of spare minutes, left. He’s down to his last six months worth. 

The plan had never really been a plan for him. It was for Aziraphale, really. A desperate plan, thought up by a desperate demon, in the early hours of a desperate morning - clutching a bottle of whiskey to his chest and thinking of babies in baskets and the fires of Hell. It was a plan concocted to protect an angel. 

In the beginning, Crowley had really believed it might work - that they might be able to balance the boy, and fake their way through this, and go back to things as they used to be - but that surety faded away over the first few years. Each time he reported back, to Hell, it because clear that nothing less than Armageddon would satisfy his superiors. So, even if he and Aziraphale did manage to balance the boy and save the world, Crowley realised his own days on Earth were numbered. 

If the boy delivered on his hereditary purpose of destruction, the war began and Crowley would die along with the rest of his brethren in the great battle that would follow. (Good would win. It had to. There was a plan, after all.)  If the boy failed, the demon would be recalled to Hell, as punishment.  Whether or not the plan worked, these were to be Crowley’s last eleven years on Earth. 

His last six months, now.

The demon closes his eyes, tries to ground himself on the warm pressure of Aziraphale’s hand. 

His desire to save the Earth is now solely for the angel’s benefit. When it all goes wrong and he is taken from Earth, he wants to be able imagine the angel, living on here without him. He wants to be able to imagine Aziraphale, sitting in his bookshop, a little frown line marking his brow as he reads intently. He wants to imagine him eating dinner at one of his favourite restaurants, wearing that blissed out expression he gets, when he takes a bite of his favourite pudding. He wants to imagine the angel laughing at a joke, somewhere, even if it’s not with him. He needs him safe and clean, and not complicit in this treachery. 

That’s the best part about this plan, the demon thinks. Whether it succeeds or fails, it will be seen as the demon’s fault. Heaven can’t rip Aziraphale from the Earth for having failed to stop The Great War. And they can hardly punish him for thwarting evil. The way Crowley sees it, Aziraphale is safe, either way. 

Tilting his head back, the demon stares up at the sky - at the inky blackness, marked with stars.

_You won't punish him, will you? He’s the best angel. The very best one. You can’t punish him. Not because of me._

Does she hear him when he prays, he wonders?

There’s never been any evidence of it - and that cannot be from lack of trying. Crowley has prayed more, during these past eleven years, than in all of the years that came before. More than he did before the Fall. 

_Just let him be okay,_ he thinks, to the night - to Her _. That’s all I’m asking._

“Crowley, what’s wrong?” The angel’s soft voice draws him back to the moment, back to the steep hillside and the valley below, and the black trees standing sentinel around them. 

The car engine is still running, in the distance. The demon can see the gold of its lights, through the trees. 

Throwing a hand out, he cuts the sound. Cuts the light. 

Everything is still, for a moment. Then, Aziraphale speaks again. 

“Was it something I said?” He asks, softly. 

The demon looks down at his friend.

Apart from the scarf around his neck, Aziraphale looks exactly as Aziraphale always does. He is wearing his winter coat, (which is almost entirely the same as his summer coat, but made with thicker wool), and that pale waistcoat he loves so much. The bowtie is the same one he’s had for the last fifty years. He doesn’t change, the demon thinks, fondly. It’s only when his clothes fall apart, and even a miracle can't save them, that he’ll relent and move with the times. He’ll look like this for another twenty years, at least. Long after Crowley is gone. 

“Just got a bit caught up in my thoughts,” he rasps. His voice is embarrassingly rough. His throat still feels very tight. “Stupid, really. I’m probably just tired.”

The angel gives his shoulder a squeeze, then drops his hand to his side. 

Part of Crowley cries out, internally, at the loss of contact. 

“It has been a long day, I suppose,” Aziraphale murmurs, looking up at him with concern.

“Long year…” the demon hisses. “Long decade.”

“Indeed.” 

“I’ve not been sleeping well. Head’s all over the place.” 

He lifts a hand and runs fingers through his hair. The sides are cropped brutally short, at the moment, and the sensation catches him by surprise. He’d forgotten he changed it back, from how it had been earlier, today, during their obligatory appearance at the Dowling’s Christmas gathering. He’d been making a concerted effort to look familiar, for the boy. 

It had been a strange experience, going back to see the kid. Crowley had been actually quite apprehensive about it all. He’s been a primarily negative influence, after all, and he was worried that Warlock would have a negative response to his reappearing. But, when they had arrived, the boy had run up and thrown himself joyfully around the demon’s middle - gripped onto him like he had when he was five, and all limbs and boundless enthusiasm - and it had been, well… nice. It had been nice to be remembered. To be so loved. 

He’d let the child cling on to him all afternoon. Let him trail after him, around the party, chatting away about his little life at his new boarding school, his teachers and his classes and his friends, and all the things that fill a ten-year-old’s mind. He had even parroted back some of the sayings that Crowley used to teach him, looking up at the demon, for approval, each time. It had been sweet and amusing, at first. Then, he’d made some comment about squashing all of the world under his heel and fear had rushed through the demon - reality hitting in a way it hadn’t, up until that point. 

This was actually happening, he thought. The prophesized day was coming. And the child might be just normal enough to survive it but, regardless of the Earth’s fate, _he_ only had six months left. He had less than a year. There wasn’t going to be another Christmas, for him.

Fear had filled him, then, and he had been harsher than usual, because of it. He had been snippy with the staff and withdrawn with Aziraphale. Even Harriet Dowling, who was usually very patient with him, had stopped trying after two or three failed attempts at conversation. Warlock had continued to follow him around, though. He’d even held Crowley’s hand as they sat on the sofa together, in the evening, drinking the cook’s ghastly alcohol-free eggnog. It was an unusual display of affection from the boy, who now considered himself far too old and cool for such things. It was as if he could feel that his former nanny needed it. 

Not the actions of an antichrist, Crowley thinks. But, then, his own actions are hardly the actions of a demon. 

_Oh, Satan, he is so fucked._

The demon drops his hands to his sides, not sure what to do with them. He’s wearing the trousers that went with his outfit, from earlier, and they don’t have pockets. He has no belt to hook his thumbs into. Clasping them together is very not him. So, he just lets them hang there, turning his head to stare out at the countryside. 

Everything is a wash of blue and silver; fields, and trees, and cold crisp sky. He can see the startling contrast of Christmas lights, through the window of a distant cottage, some half a mile away. He can see the shadows of people moving around, within. Back and forth, together and apart. Warmth seems to resonate from the place. 

He wishes he were curled up somewhere, inside - in his snakeform, perhaps, so he didn’t have to think so much. He wishes he were being bathed in golden light. Warm and safe. 

Beside him, Aziraphale moves slightly, shoes crunching on the frost. 

“What’s going on, my dear?” The angel asks. 

_My dear._

They’ve used epithets in place of names for four thousand years, now. Aziraphale’s original choice for him had been something different. (English having not been invented, yet). Literally translated, it meant something like ‘my own’ - a little reference to a joke they had, at the time, about Crowley being his own, personal demon to thwart - but the angel had adapted the nickname to fit the times. And, perhaps, the sentiment. 

Crowley’s mind trails away, for a moment, thinking of other names Aziraphale has called him, over the years. The humorous euphemisms. The pejoratives. The superlatives. The soft words he had coaxed Crowley closer with, that night in the inn, by the bay. He had called him ‘the most important thing’ that night. ’The only bit that lasts’. He probably still has no idea how much that meant, to the demon. 

They’ve said ‘I love you’, now, in so many ways, Crowley thinks. 

_‘The most important thing’. ‘You make me feel good'. ‘You go too fast for me’._

Perhaps he’ll get to say it properly on that last day. Maybe they’ll manage to slink off somewhere for a few hours - somewhere protected, somewhere nobody can find them - and he’ll tell Aziraphale everything. Lay out his soul. Show love with his body. Lose himself in feeling until he has soaked up enough to carry him through eternity. 

But more likely he won’t, he thinks. Because if he lets himself have that, he doesn’t think he’ll ever let go - and he needs to let go, so that the angel can be safe. More likely, he’ll go to the end without saying those words. 

Taking a very deep breath, the demon forces himself to look back around at the creature wrapped in the man-shaped body beside him, staring hesitantly up at his face. 

“I’m okay,” he tells Aziraphale, softly. “Just having a bad day.” 

“I can see that.” The angel eyes him, nervously. “Is it… you know…?” He rarely says ‘ _Armageddon_ ’. He’ll say ‘ _End Times_ ’, if he’s feeling particularly brave, but mostly he just trails off and lets Crowley infer his meaning. 

“Yeah, mostly.” The demon gives his head a little shake. It feels a bit clearer, after his cry. A bit more stable than before. “It’s just not long to go, now.”

“Six months.”

A little bolt of fear shoots through him, from deep in his belly out, to the tips of his toes. 

“Yeah…” 

There is a bit of a pause between them, then the angel whispers, “You know, I’ve spent a lot of time, the last few weeks, wishing time could freeze, along with the winter.” 

The demon frowns at him. 

Aziraphale is looking around at the gilded undergrowth - at the bare trees, covered in a thin sheen of ice. 

“I wish everything would just stop, for a while… Or, that everything else continue on, but without us.” He stares a moment longer, then his eyes jerk back over to Crowley, a pink flush painting his cheeks. “It’s silly, I know.”

“It’s not silly.”

“I just… I don’t know what to do, anymore.” The angel looks so lost, his eyes pure silver in the faint moonlight. “I always thought… I always thought that, when the time came, I’d know what to do. What was right. I thought i’d be sure.”

“Yeah. Me too.” 

“Maybe it will work, though?” Aziraphale says and it kills Crowley, it utterly destroys him, to hear the hope in his voice. He really does still think it might work. Worse than that, he thinks that there will be more of this, if it does. He thinks things will go back to how they were, before - the pair of them traipsing around this world, pretending to thwart one another, stealing moments. He doesn’t realise that Crowley’s time here has an expiration date. Because Crowley cannot tell him. Because he’ll never play along, if he knows. 

If he thinks that his actions will lead to Crowley’s removal from Earth, he’ll never agree to keep influencing the boy. He’ll say they will just have to take their chances with Heaven and Hell. Because, in the deepest, most secret part of Aziraphale - the part that he probably doesn’t acknowledge himself - Crowley knows that the angel still believes there is a world, after war and Earth, where a demon might be forgiven. 

But that’s not me, the demon thinks, staring into his eyes, reflecting the blue silver colour of the sky. If you want me, you’ve got to want _me,_ not some version of me. I want you to choose _me_. 

“Maybe it will work,” he tells Aziraphale, softly. And he hopes the angel can’t hear the pain - because he’s doing his best to bury it in love. 

They stare into one another, then Aziraphale reaches his hand out again. 

The movement surprises the demon, because they’ve been so very, very careful about touching one another, these last fifty years. Or, rather, he’s been careful and Aziraphale has been respectful of his choice. There have been only a few lingering moments where they’ve broached that gap. Two hugs, one hand hold, a couple of squeezes of shoulders, and one time that the angel woke him from a nap by stroking his hair. Nothing too intimate. 

This feels intimate. 

The angel has reached a hand out, to rest against his belly, fingertips pressing into him through the knit of his woollen jumper. And Crowley nearly jumps out of his skin. Because there are all sorts of memories associated with his being touched, there. 

He can remember the angel carefully checking his skin for injuries, after nearly being blown to pieces, during a battle in Belgium’s frozen woods. He can remember his friend sliding a hand down the front of him, in that inn, teasing fingertips across his skin before wrapping his hand around him and stroking him to climax. He can remember them laughing together, in Antioch - a human child lying on the cushions between them - what feels like a thousand life times ago. They had been talking about Crowley being able to feed the child, and the angel had absently reached out to touch three fingertips to the space just under Crowley’s navel - joked about her bringing litters of snake demons into the world. 

But I would, the demon thinks, as the angel presses a hand into this very different form, in the present. I’d bring life into the world, for you. I’d create, with you. I’d make a life, with you - make a family, backup, our own side. Somewhere to belong. 

He thinks of belonging. Thinks of demons. 

He’s not the first of his kind to want a mate. It’s not unheard of. It’s unusual, in Hell, for demons to pair off. Any sharing is mostly done in the name of carnal pleasure - but there are some demons who have longstanding arrangements. Even affections. 

Dagon has a lover in the ranks. A demon with pale green eyes who works at a similar level to Crowley, along the Western Cape of Africa. They’ve been together for thousands of years. Dagon has seniority enough to defend having such an association, but the other demon has to be careful. Hell is a place of envy and strife. Crowley has overhead threats being levied more than once. 

There was another demon, as well, who had a mate, Crowley remembers. A human mate. They had been brought to charges on it, a couple millennia ago. They had been using their powers to prolong the human’s life and Hell hadn’t been at all happy, at all. Crowley cannot remember whatactually became of the two of them. He'd had so little interest in it all, at the time. 

He remembers spotting them once, though, standing on a narrow bridge together. Demon and human. They’d been laughing, the woman tucked against the demon’s chest, enclosed in his arms, their hair tangled in the wind. She’d had dark, laughing eyes, Crowley remembers. He remembers, too, the way the demon had stiffened and looked over, to sense him nearby. They had locked eyes. Then Crowley had nodded and slipped off, into the crowds.

Perhaps he made one ally in Hell, that day, Crowley thinks. Perhaps not. He never heard what became of that demon. His infamous coupling had probably led to him being demoted somewhere awful. 

Crowley would suffer a much worse fate than demotion, for his own association. He would be tortured in ways more horrible than he can imagine - flayed and burned and cut and beaten - marked out as the worst kind of traitor. 

But if he was a traitor in Heaven, and a traitor in Hell, then where did he belong?

_What do You want from us,_ the demon asks, in the direction of the sky, feeling Aziraphale press a palm against him. _If You made us, then You must have also made us capable of feeling this way, for some purpose. What did You mean by it? Why did You need to make it hurt so much?_

“If the plan doesn’t work,” the angel whispers up at him, eyes full of fear, “what do we do?”

Crowley doesn’t know what to say, to that. He’s never lied, to the angel. 

“It will work,” he assures Aziraphale. Because he needs his friend to believe it. Needs him to sway the boy and save the world. 

“But if it doesn’t,” the angel insists, tone growing a little desperate. “Crowley… you wouldn’t-,” he cuts himself off, looking down at his hand, set against the demon’s belly. 

He’s thinking about holy water. Crowley is thinking about it, too. 

There is an awkward little silence between them, then the demon speaks.

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, voice so soft he can barely hear it.

“You’re sure?

“Yes!”

Those pale eyes lift and hold, the expression in them defiant. Suddenly, he is not something gentle and soft, but the angel who gave humanity a flaming sword, who sheltered a demon under their wing, who loves the world to the point of endangering his own soul. 

_Okay, then, brave angel._

“I’ll try and make this plan work for as long as I can,” Crowley says, “but if it goes wrong, if Armageddon fails and Hell is coming for me, then I’m going to run. I’m going to run as fast and as far as I can. And I won’t stop until I find somewhere safe, or I can’t run anymore, or I reach the edge of the universe.” He stops, there, looks back up at the dark sky around them. Feels the warmth of an angel’s hand, resting against the centre of him. 

“…And what if they catch you?” 

_Why do you have to ask?_

“Aziraphale…”

“You wouldn’t use the water on yourself, would you?” 

He stays silent. 

The angel gives a little press of his hand. 

“You wouldn’t, would you? Promise me that you wouldn’t?”

He looks down from the stars, into his friend’s eyes. 

Aziraphale cannot comprehend the reality of Hell. He has never seen what Crowley looks like, beyond his human shell, or what it is like to have spent lifespans of worlds in fire and pain. He does not know how long it takes, lying burned and broken in the pits, before a being can force their will into form. He does not know the agony of pushing that form into shape, of pushing that shape into servitude, of slowly crawling upwards, earning your colours, inching closer to escape. He doesn’t understand how it feels, to take that first breath of air outside the confines of Hell. And Crowley never wants him to. 

He wants Aziraphale as far from fire and ash as he can get. He wants him clean, somewhere, standing in the snow with bare, pink feet and that brilliant smile. Wants him safe. 

He will do anything to keep the angel safe. He will do everything he can, to keep this world ticking over and avoid discovery. But, if it all goes wrong, he cannot go back. He cannot return to fire and suffering. He’d rather return to dust. 

He blinks. 

“I’ll run fast,” he tells the angel. “I’ll run far. They won’t find me.”

“Promise me, Crowley?” 

He’s never lied to Aziraphale. Now feels like a really, really shitty time to start. 

He does it anyway. 

“I promise,” he says, quietly. 

The words bite through the cold of the air like poison. 

The angel drops his hand, slowly, from the front of him, eyes wide and imploring. 

“Crowley…”

He tightens his jaw, stares doggedly back at the angel, who continues to watch him with increasing reproach. 

“You really haven't lied to me, before…” Aziraphale says, almost a whisper, after a whole thirty seconds have passed. “You’re not very good at it.”

That push-pull magnetic thing between them tugs. The world seems to fall back a little, stretching to accommodate the new depths of emotion surrounding them. 

The demon can only imagine what it feels like, to be on the other end of what he’s feeling, right now. Because it’s not just love. It’s not as simple as that, anymore. There’s a flavour of envy in it, and the resignation that he’s built up, within himself, over what he’s going to do. It gives his love a very different edge to the desperate love he has bathed the angel in, before. There is need, still, but it is need in a different plane. He _wants_ to kiss Aziraphale. He _wants_ to wash thought away, for a while, tangle their bodies up together somewhere, mark one another with themselves. But what he really _needs_ is for the angel to be safe. 

He _needs_ this plan to go ahead. His own sacrifice, at the end of it, will confirm that it wasn’t a plan. Heaven will see Aziraphale as having moved to thwart his hereditary enemy. They’ll see the boy and see the influences of good in him, alongside the evil. And they’ll read into it what they expect to see. Because what self-respecting demon would risk his life, to prolong humanity? What sort of demon would die, to protect an angel? 

A stupid one, Crowley thinks. 

“Hey-,” He reaches a hand out, capturing the fingertips that are now hanging loosely by the angel’s side. 

Aziraphale look up at him, half reproachful, half fearful. 

The demon cracks a shaky smile, feeling the need to lessen the fear in his friend’s eyes. 

“Watch, angel. I’ll stop time for you.” 

He can’t. He’s never been that powerful. But he can fake the sensation. 

And Aziraphale definitely knows what he’s about to do, but he lets him do it anyway. He lets Crowley step in, and slide fingers into the soft underside of his wrist, press magic into his blood to slow the rate of his heart, to calm him. He lets the demon lift his other hand to his jaw, run his thumb along the edge of it, feeling the impossible softness of his skin. He lets Crowley tilts his head in, resting their foreheads together, nose nudging into his cheek. Leaving a little gap between their mouths. Inviting. 

Temptation only works if you reach out for it. 

The angel turns his face in, closing the distance.  Completion. 

They kiss like something starved. It’s all very desperate, that first minute, all rubbing skin and clutching hands, and breath clouding the cold night air. All pressing harder, nudging deeper. Then, the angel gives a slightly shaky inhale and lifts his hands to cradle Crowley’s face, and things start to slow down. They press for longer, taking their time, savouring the movements. The warm inside of lips, the rough brush of tongues, the little noises their bodies make as they meet. They meet again and again. Softer, now. Careful, deep kisses that lighten, gradually, into tiny, brushing kisses - like those first touches they shared, in the softness of their shared bed, in Antioch. It’s all very palindromic, Crowley thinks. 

_I loved you that first time. I'll love you at the last._

He doesn’t say it. 

He can feel Aziraphale’s warm mouth against his cheek, as he turns his face, separating their mouths but keeping their foreheads pressed together. The angel is breathless, lips very pink from their exertions. They don’t need to breathe, the demon thinks. The choose to. They choose it like they choose this world - like they choose one another. There’s something a little comforting in that, he thinks. Who wouldn’t rather die for something they choose, that they believe in? 

“Pretty sure you didn’t do any magic, there,” Aziraphale whispers up at him, between breaths. 

“Didn’t need to, angel,” he murmurs back, and there’s a lingering softness to the moment that makes it less serious, leaves them room to be a little like their old selves. The fear is still there, but it all makes a great deal of sense, at the moment. “I’m made of magic,” he murmurs. “So much magic. Super magic demon, me.”

He feels his friend smile against, hears the soft exhale of a laugh. 

“Super magic demon,” Aziraphale repeats. 

“Mmh.”

They are still hovering very close to one another, hands nestled into the warmth of one another. The angel’s eyes are closed, as if he’s trying to prolong the moment. The demon’s eyes are open, because he knows this might be the last time he gets to do this. He wants to remember the details. 

There are plenty of days he might Aziraphale, between now and the end. They’ll meet up at least once a month, to discuss the boy and the plan. They’ll probably get dinner twice - maybe three times. They’ll probably end up sitting in the back of his bookshop, afterwards, getting drunk and chatting about the world. But Crowley knows he can’t let the angel see him panic, again. He has to keep acting normal. And he can’t keep kissing him like he’s saying goodbye. The angel will realise something is up. Thankfully, they have an excuse, today. 

“Merry Christmas, angel.” 

“Merry Christmas, Crowley.” The angel’s fingers tighten against his clothes. “I-,”

“You didn’t get me anything?"

"...no."

“Ngh." he breathes him in, memorising the mix of skin and aftershave. "S’okay.”

“Next year?”

“Yeah. Next year,” he murmurs. Then - on impulse, because he suddenly can’t not - he slides his hands further around his friend and pulls him into a tight hug. “Really big present next year. If you’re looking for ideas, I need a new walkman. ”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“I know…” 

He gives him one last squeeze and steps back, dropping his arms. 

Aziraphale watches him go, looking a little dazed, and more than a little mollified from their earlier conversation. They watch one another for a moment. Crowley forgets he doesn’t have pockets and does a weird flappy thing with is hands before rolling his eyes at himself and motioning back, towards the car. 

“Shall we get moving, then?”

The angel gives a little squirm. 

“I think I’ll pop myself back home, actually,” he murmurs, cheeks pinking a little at the way Crowley’s forehead creases. “It’s just… well, it’s late and I really should send back a report, on the boy. And…” he waves a hand, vaguely. 

And you’re not sure you can spend a whole journey back thinking about what I’m going to do, if this fails, Crowley finishes for him, inside his head. And you’re not sure you can trust yourself not to invite me in, at the other end. You’re still trying to control yourself, because you still think there are long-term stakes, in this game. You still think that, if we manage to pull this off, we have centuries and millennia of dancing around one another left to do. 

And that’s the real lie, here, the demon thinks - the lie he never had to speak out loud. Aziraphale knows Crowley lied about not using the holy water, if this fails. But he has no idea what’s going to happen if they win. The truth of that is hidden behind the smaller lie. Layers of deception. An old trick, by a creature who is well versed in the art.

Crowley might be a shit demon, but he’s not unskilled. 

“Okay,” he shrugs, letting the angel off with his garbled excuse for leaving. Neither of them are innocent of falsehoods, tonight. “That’s fine. No problem. I’ll be in touch, about which of us should stop by the boy’s school, next month.”

“Yes. Do.” Aziraphale pulls on a little smile. “You can call. The phone’s working again.”

“Did you figure out what was wrong?”

“I must have unplugged it, accidentally, while I was moving things around.”

“Ah. Classic.” 

They stare at one another a long few seconds. 

“You’d better mention something about undoing some curse of mine, around this place,” Crowley adds, after a spot of consideration. “We’ve both used magic here, and it’s not so very far from the boy’s home. We don’t want-,”

“-no, we don’t.” Aziraphale bobs his head. “I’ll mention something about coming across a curse and breaking it.”

“Right. And I’ll do the opposite.”

“Right.”

“Okay.”

There’s a little gap. A little pause where both of them are thinking the same thing. Then Crowley clears his throat and forces himself to step away, through the woods, towards the car. The pain and love are tearing at him, in equal measure. 

“Night, angel,” he calls back, to his friend. 

“Goodnight, Crowley.” Echoes softly, after him. 

.


	12. Home

_A number of months after the world has not ended…_

He finds Crowley on the roof, overlooking the city. 

It is a beautiful setting. Twilight has come early, as befits the time of year. Day is folding into night, the sky overhead a riot of pinks and purples. The last rays of sunlight gild the undersides of wispy clouds, high in the stratosphere. A hint of sunset clings to the western horizon. In the east, the sky is already dark. 

The angel of the eastern gate steps out onto the roof from the iron stair of a fire escape, looking briefly off in the direction he was built to guard. It has been long years since that first day in Eden, when he was sent to Earth. He still remembers the overwhelming sensation of arriving in a physical world. He still remembers the excitement of standing before Her and being given his task. 

You are a Principality, She had told him - a soldier, made to guard a gate, made to protect humanity. She had given him a sword and a body, and told him his watch would last until the End Days. This Earth is your home, now, She had said, as the warmth of Heaven faded from his bones, to be replaced by the different warmth of Earth’s golden sun - serve her well. 

He was made a Principality, bound to Earth, bound to the lives that grew here. This was always supposed to be his destiny, Aziraphale thinks, letting go of the iron railing and takes another step out, onto the roof. His life was always going to lead to this moment - to a night where he stood, in the aftermath of the end of the world, across from the creature sent to Earth to counter him. 

The details are a little different than expected, however. 

Armageddon has not played out like apocalypse Aziraphale had envisioned. If the angel had been asked to imagine this scene, in the beginning, he would have pictured a city in ruins - a world blackened and turned to ash. He would have pictured fallout, in the skies, or bodies lying in the streets. Or, perhaps, a world utterly devoid of life. He would have pictured the enemy standing opposite him to be a towering, monstrous thing, with bloodshot eyes and fangs, and evil in its heart. He would have pictured armies of avenging angels, in the skies. Demons and fire in the streets. Pain and fear and death. 

He would not have imagined a quiet twilight - the roads below filled with the gentle rush and fade of cars. He would not have imagined a delicate frost clinging to the surfaces of the rooftop, or the way the moon had already risen into the fading light of the sky. He would not have imagined his hereditary enemy, his diametric counterpart, to have been something lithe and pale - something wrapped in nothing but a thick wool blanket, back of his slender neck exposed as he stares up into the gathering dark. 

He could never have imagined the vibrant shades of red, that make up Crowley’s hair. He could never have imagined the way his eyes shine, in the starlight. He could never have imagined the way his own heart would fill to the brim, just to see him, just to know that he is near. 

But it does. 

Has done for a long time. Will do forever. 

The angel steps forwards, letting his hands drop to his side, looking around at the night. 

Christmas Day has been and gone, he thinks. It is Christmas evening, now. The windows of the city around them glow with golden light. The shapes of skyscrapers and cranes stand out darkly, in the distance - black jagged shapes, tipped with red, against the fading horizon. There are coloured fairy lights decking the myriad of buildings between the bookshop and them - strung up in windows, around doorways and lampposts. A few doors down, across the road, Aziraphale can see a Christmas tree, sitting on the table in someone’s living room. Its lights appear to shimmer merrily through the cold air. 

There are few cars on the streets, below, and none of London’s usual clamour. Everyone must be closeted inside, the angel thinks, keeping away from the cold. That is the way of Christmas, these days. Being inside, surrounded by family. Gathered around food, or a fire, indulging in companionship.

Aziraphale has always appreciated that aspect of humanity. That togetherness, that thing which binds them - which drives them to seek resources, to fight, and learn, and travel, and grow. Belonging seems so essential to the human experience that they fade away, when kept in isolation. They stagnate, become less. They are only really human when they are together, the angel has surmised, over his years of watching. He is starting to think that it might be the same, for he and Crowley. They are only really themselves when they are together. They are made more, somehow, greater than the sum of their parts. 

They are a pair of something, Aziraphale has decided, though he’s not entirely sure what, yet. Something not quite demon, but not quite angel. Something different to what has come before. Something evolved through the togetherness of Earth. Something new. Something hopeful. Definitely a pair of whatever it they are, though. Whatever else, he knows they are a pair. 

Breath clouding the air, the angel steps further onto the roof, moving softly towards the other half of him. 

The ground beneath his feet is flat. There is tile on the edges of the building, but this central part must have been re-laid sometime in the last century. Aziraphale cannot remember when, exactly. It probably happened around the time that the shop next door had their drainage re-done. The magical nature of the bookshop means the angel has had to invest very little thought into its structural integrity, over the years. The roof has always functioned to keep the rain out and that’s about as much as Aziraphale has ever thought of it. That is, it was until the demon moved in. 

Now, the roof is another setting for the story of their lives to play out. In the summer, it is a verdant paradise, all of Crowley’s making. A narrow stair leads up from the fire escape, outside the demon’s study, allowing him to maintain a vast collection of plants, residing in pots of different sizes and colours. A few of them brush up against the glass dome of the bookshop, below. Aziraphale finds it very pleasing, to be able to glance up, while he’s working, and see them there. He finds it even more pleasing to occasionally catch sight of the demon, who tends them. 

Crowley can be found up here not infrequently, even now that many of the plants have been taken in, for the winter. It’s his sanctuary, Aziraphale has come to understand. Up here, the demon is about as far away from the confines of Hell as he can get. There is no darkness, here - no close ceilings, or damp walls, or the infernal press of other damned souls - only space. There is a view of the city and a view of the sky. He comes up, during the day, to tend to the plants. At night, he comes for the stars. 

Ten steps carry Aziraphale over to the demon’s side and he stops beside his friend, breathing slowly out, into the night air. He does not announce his presence. Crowley will have heard him coming. There is no point in clearing his throat, or trying to draw his friend’s attention. The demon will turn when he’s ready to turn. 

Sure enough, after pulling the blanket a little more tightly around his shoulders, Crowley does. 

“Hey, angel.”

He is sitting, cross legged, in the hammock he installed back in August. Cradled in folds of fabric, wrapped in further folds of woollen blanket, he looks oddly delicate. Fragile, in a way his lanky frame does not often appear. As Aziraphale takes another step forwards, he sees that Crowley is not wearing anything under the blanket. He must have wrapped himself up and walked up here directly from their bedroom. The hard edge of one of his collarbones stands out starkly in the twilight, the demon’s pale skin almost iridescent. 

“You must be freezing up here,” the angel says, softly, looking down at him. “Do you want my jumper?”

“Nah,” Crowley gives a shrug. “It’s not too bad. 

He shifts his blanket, pulling it more snugly around his shoulders. 

The freckles those shoulders bore in summer are nearly gone, now, the angel thinks. Though the ends of the demon’s hair are still slightly bleached by sun. He is attempting to grow it back out again, the angel has surmised. Crowley hasn't actually said anything about it, but the copper locks are a little more unruly than usual, and Aziraphale keeps catching him fiddling with it - testing how far he can pull it down, over his forehead. And it’s about the right sort of time for a change. His friend has always liked to mark events with a physical change. And this last year has been littered with big events, to mark. 

“I wondered where you’d got to,” the angel tells the demon, eyes tracing over the line where his hair meets the nape of his neck. It’s one of his favourite parts. There’s something delicate about it. Something beautiful in the contrast of red and white. Something that makes Aziraphale want to bury his face in his friend’s skin and inhale the scent, there. “I woke up and you were gone.”

It’s not a reproach. It’s more of a question. 

He had known that Crowley would not be far away. They don’t skip out without telling one another. They never have - even before they were a thing that was allowed to sleep side-by-side, as a pair. Crowley has always woken him before he’s left. And vice versa. 

The demon throws him a bit of an apologetic look, now. 

“Yeah, sorry. Needed a moment.” 

Below his unruly hair, his irises are huge and gold. It’s one of the angel’s favourite things to have come out of Armageddon. His friend does not shrink them down, in private, anymore. When it’s just them, he’s just Crowley. And, tonight, he’s slightly distressed. Aziraphale can see that his pupils are a bit wider than usual. 

“I was having a mild existential crisis,” the demon tells him, softly. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

“You didn’t. I must have been out for another half an hour, after you’d left.” Aziraphale tilts his head. “Would you like some company?” 

The words hang in the air like the cloud of water vapour that accompanies them. 

Crowley watches him for a long moment, considering the offer. Then he gives a little nod of his head. 

“Yeah. Go on, then.”

Aziraphale moves closer, pulling a small stool from behind a pile of empty plant pots, and setting it down beside the demon’s hammock. He sits close enough that the underside of the fabric, stretched to accommodate the demon, brushes against his shoulder. Just a little touch. Just enough for Crowley to be able to feel him. The demon has always appreciated that. 

Together, they look up at the sky for several minutes. 

Aziraphale watches the twilight fade, turning itself over to night proper. The gold leaves the undersides of the clouds, first. Then the pink fades to purple, and then to dusky blue. Soon, indigo is spreading out from the eastern horizon, and stars are beginning to emerge to rival the pale glow of the crescent moon. The faint orange glow of London hides them from the view of mortal eyes, but if the angel focusses, he can see past it. He can see right up, to the heavens that the humans chart their lives by. He can see the energy that Crowley once pulled into being, from atoms and dust. 

_To know and love a star serpent demon… Was this what you saw, at the end of your road, angel?_

No, he thinks. He could not have predicted this if he’d had a million years, to think it through.

They sit for nearly ten minutes before Crowley’s voice breaks the silence. 

“I had that dream about floating again.”

The angel resists the urge to look around, at his friend. That’s not how this works. He’s learned what Crowley needs, in order to talk, and most of the time it’s just a bit of space. If Aziraphale presents himself as available and hangs about long enough, the demon will usually let him in on a sliver of what is happening, behind his deep golden eyes. Sometimes, if the setting is just right, he’ll even verbalise a feeling or two - some of the little frustrations and fears that keep him up at night, or that draw him from the angel’s bed, late on a Christmas afternoon. 

“Was it the nightmare about skin?” The angel asks. 

“Yeah.” 

Crowley has a few repeating nightmares. Aziraphale has done this best to learn them, the better to help him cope. 

The demon has a lot of trauma, to shoulder. Some are traumas that come with having been thrown from Heaven, into the darkest pits of Hell. Some are traumas that come with having had to earn your way back up. Some are traumas that come with life on Earth - and the traumas of the last few years have been worse than most the rest, of those. Crowley had sacrificed so very much, to keep them safe. He had been willing to sacrifice even more. 

The angel glances back, over his shoulder. His friend’s face is tilted up, towards the sky. The proud angle of his cheekbone catches the light of the moon. There is a faint wash of red across his forehead, a reflection from a distant building. It catches in the crease of a frown. 

“Was it the same as usual?” He asks, feeling love and appreciation flow through him. 

“Pretty much. Started in a shower, this time. Weird fucking thing…”

“And ended the same way?”

“Yup.” 

This particular nightmare is a common one. It always happens the same way. Crowley starts out in bed, or a garden, or the shower. He’s feeling sensation wash over him, feeling pleasure, tasting the world, and then suddenly he realises he has no skin. He realises he is no more than a collection of thoughts - that he’s been pushed out of existence. And then, suddenly, he’s floating off, into the air, over himself, watching it all without any power to act. And then the world begins to shrink, everything around him zooming out, until he’s being dispersed through the whole of space, spinning into atoms. And the concept of the vastness of it all is staggering. And he screams out for help, but nobody can hear him, because he has no lungs. And then he wakes.

“Are you okay?” The angel asks him, gently. 

“Yeah…” Crowley pulls a bit of a face - a wrinkled nose and curled lip - a brief flash of his usual bravado. “It wasn’t that bad, this time. I was only dozing, so I could still sort of feel you, nearby. Kicked out and woke up.” 

They always maintain contact while they sleep, these days. Neither of them have talked about it, but it is mainly to reassure the demon. 

After the almost-Armageddon, Crowley had not slept for three weeks - despite his obvious exhaustion. He had been too afraid to let his guard down, he had told Aziraphale, later. He had kept having nightmares, that the both of them were being dragged off, to the pits. It happened every time he closed his eyes.

Instead of sleeping, the demon had taken to loitering around the bookshop, or taking Aziraphale out for long drives, or inviting the angel to all-night film screenings, just to stave of the inevitable. Aziraphale had tried to let him process the whole situation in his own way but, eventually, it had become too much. One night, they had been sitting on the couch in the back room of the bookshop and Crowley’s eyes had just kept slipping closed - his head lolling forwards only to be jerked up again, as he realised what was happening - the angel had given in to the need to fix. 

Patting the pillow next to him, he had insisted that the demon lie down. ‘Just for a bit,’ he had told his worried friend. ‘I’ll be here the whole time, keep an eye on things. Just rest, my dear’. 

Crowley had slept for eighteen hours, that night, curled on one half of the old couch, head resting on a pillow beside Aziraphale’s thigh. The angel had kept a hand on his shoulder, the whole time - a gentle reassurance for his friend, who stirred every time the angel tried to withdraw contact. His neck had been stiff to the point of discomfort by the time Crowley had woken, but it was worth it, to experience the demon coming back to consciousness - the way he blinked his eyes into focus, great wide pupils contracting into tight slits. 

After that, two days had passed in fairly normal fashion. They’d spent a bit of time, shared tea and a walk in the park. Then, on the second day, just as Aziraphale was settling down for the evening, with a book, Crowley had turned up and thrown himself dramatically down on the couch, and told the angel that he just couldn’t sleep at his place - that he’d tried but he kept having horrible dreams. So, Aziraphale had offered him a blanket and a pillow and taken up position in the chair opposite, as the demon curled up gratefully on the couch. Then, when Crowley had continued to toss and turn, he had dragged his chair closer - putting his feet up on the couch cushions and letting their toes brush against one another’s, through the blanket. And with that contact, Crowley had slept for more twelve hours. 

It became a bit of a thing. Every few days, the demon would turn up at the bookshop, or loiter there, after they’d finished spending an evening in company, and Aziraphale would let him sleep on the couch while he read, their feet tangled together at the end of the couch. Occasionally, he would sit on the couch, too, and let Crowley rest his feet in his lap. Eventually, tired of drifting off to the soporific sound of the demon’s gentle snoring and waking up with a crick in his neck, Aziraphale had suggested they sleep in an actual bed and - after eyeing him in a cautious manner - Crowley had agreed. 

They spent three weeks of their lives like that, sleeping across from one another, just a hand or a foot in contact. Meanwhile, things stayed otherwise the same, between them. They tidied up the loose ends of their previous lives, as emissaries of Heaven and Hell. They sent off their final reports. They met up for coffee, or drinks, or a film, every few days - and went to dinner at least twice a week. The demon stopped by the shop, when he could, with nonsense to amuse the angel, and the pair of them sporadically drove up to Lower Tadfield, to check that Adam Young hadn’t devolved back into being the antichrist and decided to try and destroy the world.

The bridge into sleeping together, in the vernacular sense, had happened nearly a month later, after a significant amount of staring longingly at one another and both being entirely useless about being upfront. 

It had taken three bottles of wine, an outing to the ballet, and Crowley trying (and failing) to retie a bow-tie, to get them to the point where they were sitting across from one another on the bookshop couch - faces far too close and bodies thrilling with laughter. It had only taken a kiss, however, to move them past it. 

A little ‘angel?’ And a nod. And a kiss. 

And then more kisses, pressed up against the back of the couch. And then more, on the stairs. And then down the hall. And then in the little bedroom above the bookshop, where the angel pressed his friend down against soft sheets and drew little whimpers out of him until both of them could barely breathe. At which point, Crowley had pulled back, grabbing him by the wrist to still their movements, and asked;

“Wait, this is real, right?” And the gentle desperation in his eyes had nearly made the angel cry out in shame - because he knew why this was painful, for his friend. He knew that he’d been the cause of that pain so many times, over the years. 

“Crowley… this is real,” he had murmured back. But Crowley had watched him, with apprehension in his eyes. 

“You're not going to fuck off afterwards, are you? Because I can’t-,” A grimace. “I can't do that whole thing again, angel.”

“My dear…” Aziraphale had lifted his hand to run fingers down that familiar face, full of sorrow and love in equal measure. It had been crippling, that moment. Knowing all the hurt he had caused - knowing there was no way to make it vanish. “I’m so sorry,” he’d just whispered, softly. “I treated you appallingly.I was just so afraid. I loved you so very much… I love you so very much.”

His words had been enough to draw a shaky inhale from the demon - a little parting of the lips - but Crowley had not fallen into the touch. He not closed the distance between them in a kiss, though his expression spoke that he clearly wanting to. 

“I know that,” he had whispered, instead. “But I need to know what this means.”

They’d stared at one another for a good ten seconds, then the angel had lifted his hand, pressing it into Crowley’s chest, felt the thud of the demon’s mortal heart - flesh against bone. The moment had been so very human, yet strangely transcendental. 

“It means we’re choosing one another - not just this world.” 

“Choose one another like…?”

“Like partners. Mates.” 

The heartbeat under his palm had thudded impossibly faster. 

“Do you know choosing me means, angel?”

“I know you, Crowley. That’s all I need to know.”

“I think,” the demon had whispered back, his eyes full of desperate want and fear, “sometimes, you only see the best side of me.” 

“No,” the angel had shaken his head. “I see all of you.” And he’d drawn himself closer, ignoring Crowley’s mutters of protest. “Do you remember that day when we switched bodies? You saw all of me, didn’t you? Saw all of my magic, saw all of my forms?”

“Yes.” 

“Well, I saw all of you, just the same. And it was beautiful, Crowley - it really was - but it was nothing I didn't know, already. I’d known it for so many years... I’d loved you for so many years.” Laying his forehead against the demon’s, the angel had pressed his hand into that heartbeat, felt it race faster. “I mean this,” he had whispered. “I love you and I want this. If you want the same-,” a flicker of fear had shot through him. _What if Crowley didn’t? What if they’d lost that, somewhere along the way, in all the hurt and fear?_ “If you want me…?”

“Yeah.”

A rush of joy. Untempered by fear. 

“Then I’ll stay,” he had whispered. “I’ll stay with you for as long as you’ll have me.” 

“Yeah?” 

“For as long you’ll have me.”

“Forever,” the demon’s eyes had darted between his own, tension buzzing in the air between them. “I want you for forever. Is that okay?”

“Yes. Forever is okay.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Forever is ideal, really.” 

And he’d smiled, and the demon had dazedly smiled back, and they’d fallen into one another again. 

_Mouths seeking mouths,_

“Forever?”

“Yes.”

_Hands seeking skin,_

“Okay, I want you.”

“Like this?” 

“No, like humans do. Together.”

_Hearts seeking hearts,_

“Okay…”

“Do you want to-,”

“Like that, darling?”

“Yeah… Fuck, angel-,”

_Souls seeking souls._

They’d coupled happily, desperately, then crumpled into a heap, afterwards - sweaty and exhausted, and completely at peace. 

Then, as the angel had lain, sprawled, beneath him, tracing sigils on his back, the demon had whispered a soft ‘I love you, too’ against his skin. 

Things had gotten easier, after that.  They started talking more - got some of the shit that always lurked beneath the surface out, on top, where they could deal with it better. They slowly bridged their lives together. The demon stopped making up excuses to stop by, stopped pretending that either of them expected him to leave, at the end of an evening. And they continued to learn one another, with gentle dedication. 

They have fallen together so many times, since that first night, Aziraphale thinks, looking over at his lover, his friend. Sometimes it has been fast and desperate and full of need. Sometimes it has been slow and intense. Sometimes, it is all about exploration - a process of mutual discovery. Sometimes, they seek one another out for comfort against the memories and nightmares. They’ve been through a lot, together. Sometimes contact is the only thing that can draw them back from the fear, that can reassure them that the world didn’t end, and that this is not all some illusion. 

Aziraphale pushes into that contact, now, pressing a shoulder into Crowley’s thigh, through the fabric of the hammock that separates them. 

“You can always wake me, you know?” He reminds the demon, softly. “When you have the dreams.”

“Yeah, I know…” 

He probably won’t, though, the angel thinks. They’re getting better at sharing emotions, sharing their space and their bodies, but Crowley still tries to shield him from the worst of his damage. Aziraphale knows that there will be more times when he comes home and finds his friend sitting in a dark room, with a cold cup of tea clutched between his hands, just staring at the table. He knows there will be more nights where he wakes to find Crowley having slipped out, onto the roof, to question the stars. 

Hopefully, in time, those nights will become fewer and far between. Hopefully, the angel can nurture the gentle trust growing between them into something the demon feels safe to wrap himself in. Crowley already trusts him with his future, Aziraphale knows. He just needs him to be able to trust him with his present, too - with all the fucked up, messy hurt of where his head is, right now. But they’ll get there, the angel thinks. They’re doing just fine. 

“What can we see, tonight?” He asks Crowley, motioning up at the stars - because he wants to say ‘I love you’, but his counterpart is feeling vulnerable, and pushing for open emotion right now is not the right way to show his support. “Tell me their names?” He asks, instead. 

The demon glances gratefully over at him, then up. 

“Well, that constellation of stars is Draco, the dragon,” he says, raising a hand. One graceful finger points out a pinpoint star, of palest white, ahead of them and to the north. “And that teeny-tiny dot is Altais - delta Draconis. Her sister, Eltanin sits below those buildings. We won’t see her, tonight, though. Her path is too shallow.” 

You know them like they’re part of you, Aziraphale marvels, watching the demon out the corner of his eye. Like they are in your bones. Do you remember drawing them from the dust? Do you remember how it felt, to hold them in your hands?

“Aaaaand, over to your left, is Cygnus,” the demon continues, “sitting just below the dragon’s head. Deneb is there, at her maximum. And that one there,” he moves his hand, “is Alpheratz. Alpha Andromedae - the brightest of the constellation. She is a bit of a player. She’s part of Pegasus, as well. Likes to share her love around.” He smiles, glances down at Aziraphale. “She's a looker, too. There is a peculiar balance of mercury and manganese in her atmosphere that shows up as lines in her light spectrum. The humans don’t really understand why it forms that way, yet, but they will, one day. They're good at figuring things out. Clever humans…” Squinting, Crowley turns his head and moves his hand out, to the right, in a southward arc. “Those, over there, belong to Orion. That bright one - the blueish-white one - that’s Rigel, on the rise. We used him to guide ships, when the moon was dark. Did you know that?” 

“No,” the angel whispers. 

He is a Principality. He knows little of stars. He was made for the dirt and rocks of Earth, for the creatures that live and bleed upon them. Crowley was made for the vastness of the void. They are opposites in all things, the angel thinks, marvelling inwardly. He is the gravity that pulls them in, towards the core of the planet. Crowley is the gravity that keeps them slingshotting around the sun, hurtling through space, rotating at a thousand miles an hour. They are the same, but different. 

“I was never much good, at astronomy,” the angel admits, to his counterpart. “Or any great shakes as a sailor.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Crowley chuckles. “Used to spend half my time emptying my intestines overboard.” 

A faint smile draws across Aziraphale’s face. He remembers one long sea voyage, holding Crowley's hand in the hold of a great cargo ship as it crossed the Mediterranean during a winter storm. The world had been small, in the belly of that ship - all sea spray and lurching horizons. The only constant had been Crowley's fingers, clutched in his. Bless the poor demon. He’d been sick as a dog that whole voyage. 

“Did you know the kid we saved became a sailor?” The demon asks, jerking Aziraphale from his memories.

“Pardon?”

“The boy, from Antioch.”

A strange shiver passes along the angel’s spine. He turns in his seat, the better to look up at Crowley, who does not look down from the stars. There is something strange in his eyes. Something wistful. 

“You tracked him down?” The angel asks, feeling a rush of surprise. 

“Yeah,” Crowley gives a little shrug. “I thought it best to keep an eye out. You know - make sure none of our colleagues caught wind of him and came, asking questions.” The demon pulls the blanket more tightly around his shoulders. “I paid a man who knew his adopted parents to send me updates, by messenger. I learned that they named him George, after the saint. And that they fled to Tunis, with a number of other orthodox Christians, in the year after the city was captured.” 

“All the way to Africa?” 

“Yeah… Long sea voyage, that one. Especially for a kid. He was only one or so, by that point. Maybe he learned to walk on the boat?” Crowley suggests, softly. “Maybe that’s why he chose a life at sea?”

Aziraphale stares up at him, feeling a mix of emotion running through his body.

There is a strange relief in finally talking about the boy - a strange tenderness. That week in Antioch had laid the foundations of what he and Crowley grew to be, together. It had been watching the demon care for the child that had showed Aziraphale a new side to him - that had proved Crowley capable of more than just self interest. It had been an indisputably kind act. And it had turned the strange mix of respect, attraction, and interest that Aziraphale felt for the demon into a more singular (and infinitely more complex) emotion. 

He had fallen in love with his friend, as they pretended to be a little family, in the shadow of that war. He had fallen in love with the vulnerability and strength of him - with the contrast and the beauty of him; a creature who was neither female nor male, but who could sustain life by giving from his almost-human body. 

Watching Crowley, now, Aziraphale feels a sudden appreciation for the fact that they belong to a race of beings who do not require sexual dimorphism in order to create. Like any other angel (fallen or not) Crowley was capable of giving life directly from his soul. To make a body to carry that new life - outside of Heaven or Hell - would require creation of a much more human nature, but it was not beyond their capacity, together.

You were a creator once, the angel thinks, admiring the sharp profile of the demon’s nose. You bound energy, to form stars. Do you miss that feeling of creation? Is that something you might want to feel again, one day? You'd make a wonderful parent.

“What else did you learn about the child?” Aziraphale asks his friend, quietly. 

“Well, his father found work in the Emir’s household, in Tunis,” Crowley answers, quietly. “So the boy was raised there. He became a learned man, picked up a few languages, taught himself the ways of the court. Then, when his parents died and he fell out with the Emir’s successor, he fled to Sicily and wormed his way into the royal household, there.” 

He must have been a charismatic man, the angel thinks, with a talent for language and a keen mind. Not so very un-resemblant of a certain, silver-tongued demon…

“He became an advisor to the King,” Crowley continues, “and then an admiral, in his navy. He had an excellent mind for military tactics. Ended up laying siege to a number of cities… captured Tripoli and sacked Athens… and Corinth, if I remember correctly. He took forty ships up the Bosphorus, to Constantinople, in 1151, and that’s where the information sort of runs out,” the demon’s voice flattens out a little. His tone shifting. “I never found out exactly where he died. From the information, it seems to be somewhere during this conflict. I definitely know it was that winter, because I felt it.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows lift. 

“You felt-?”

“Yeah.” Crowley pulls a face. “Bit of a weird one. I just remember waking up one morning, before dawn, and feeling that something was different in the world. That something was… less.”

“Because he was gone?”

“Yeah.”

A few heartbeats pass, in silence. 

“I suppose that makes sense,” Aziraphale says, eventually, words slow and careful. “He did carry a part of you with him.”

Golden eyes swivel down to rest on the angel’s. Pupils wide in the darkness. 

“Yeah. S’pose he did.” 

They watch one another a few seconds, then Aziraphale asks; 

“Did he have a family?” There’s a strange desire in him for the answer to be ‘yes’ - for this life that they saved together to be perpetuated, in some way - for Crowley’s magic to have been carried on, in some line of human descent. 

The demon nods. 

“Yeah. I found records that he married twice and had four sons. Possibly daughters, too, but history does not remember women as it should.” There is a little pause, then Crowley adds; “He was not just a man of war, you know. He did good, too. In small ways. He defended his people. He became a patron of the arts, in his city. He built a school, and a church.” 

The angel frowns. 

“He built a church?”

“Yeah.”

“So, he wasn’t affected by consecrated ground?”

“Guess not.”

“But, surely, if he owed his soul to a demon…?”

“Perhaps my sins end with me?” Crowley says and there is a strange implication, in the way that he says it, that makes Aziraphale think that maybe the demon _has_ considered what it would be like, to create again. To bring new life into the world. 

In the street, below, a solitary car winds its way past, heading south towards Leicester Square. The headlights catch on the windows the shops, reflecting up against the edge of the roof garden. 

Sitting a few feet back from that edge, Crowley turns his face back up to the stars. 

Aziraphale continues to stare at his friend, for a moment, feeling as if some vague possibility has opened up to them, somewhere in the future. 

“Anyway,” the demon shrugs, after a time. “It’s nice, to know that he turned out all right.”

“Quite.”

“One less thing to feel guilty about, anyway.”

Aziraphale throws his friend a look of reproach. 

They try very hard not to do guilt, or self-recrimination. The world would judge them harshly enough, without that added pressure. Tangled in their white sheets, after the first night they had spent together, they had agreed not to let themselves dwell on the past. They both had things that they wished they could take back. They had both hurt one another. They had both made mistakes. It was better, they agreed, to commit themselves to choosing more wisely in the future. They would care for their world as best they could. And for each other. 

Reaching up, Aziraphale hangs his fingertips on the edge of the demon’s hammock, causing the thing to rock slightly. 

Crowley looks down at him. 

“You did right by him,” Aziraphale tells his counterpart. 

The demon rolls his eyes, pulls a face. 

“I did what I could.”

“It was a kind thing to do.”

“Yeah… well…” Crowley shifts in his seat, looking slightly pleased, slightly uncomfortable. “No need to go on about it.” 

Feeling suddenly a bit overcome with the memories of the child, and the reality of their current situation, and the ability to do so - the angel half rises, from his stool, and leans forwards to press a kiss into the side of his friend's cheek. 

The demon gives a little jerk of surprise, but doesn’t look displeased as the angel withdraws and looks back over at him. 

“What was that about?” 

“You.” Sometimes it is nice, just to give a bit of praise. “Just you.” 

Crowley makes a show of looking disgusted, but - after a few moments have passed - his hand slides out, from under the blanket, and moves to lie over the angel’s, on the edge of the hammock. Their fingers knit together, finding the gaps between one another’s, and they hold one another for a while, listening to the distant noises of traffic, below. 

This is one of the best things about Crowley, Aziraphale thinks, pressing gently into their shared grip; the juxtaposition, the hard and soft. The little snips and sarcasms - the way he offers of himself, despite his unease over accepting affection. He is kind, the angel thinks, and such a quality is so very rare. 

There are multitudes of angels the Principality has encountered, during his work on Earth. Many of them were lovely creatures, who would have made excellent companions. There were excellent conversationalists and deep thinkers, there were brave angels, and funny angels. But to find all of those qualities in one person - and for them to also be kind - was just so rare. Crowley has no idea how beautiful he really is, the angel thinks, smiling up at him. 

“Stop it,” the demon grumbles, chancing half a glance down. “Less of the gazing.”

“Okay.”

He doesn’t stop, though. Just keeps smiling up at Crowley, feeling very, very sure of all the choices that have led them here. 

The sureness has been something that happened in the aftermath of his discorporation. It was a strange thing - as if it took going back to Heaven for Aziraphale to realise that he did not feel God anywhere in that empty, white place. It had taken being stood before the quartermaster, having his uniform pressed into his hands, to realise that could not feel God anywhere in The Plan, or in his frightened colleagues’ eyes, as they lined up for war. He could not feel Her in the self-important call to battle, or the triumphant statements of Victory being near at hand. He had not known what that meant, but he had known one thing. He _could_ feel her on Earth. 

Aziraphale had been able to feel God’s touch in every part of Earth - in the rocks and plants and animals. He had felt Her in the humans, in every atom of their bodies, in the electricity of their souls. He had felt her in the very air that he breathed. She had created the whole world and all that lay within it. And she had created him and Crowley, too. And if he believed in Her, then he had to believe in Earth, he decided. He had to believe in them. And he could not stand by and let it all be destroyed. 

So, he had come back. He had thrown caution to the winds and returned - against orders, against all that Heaven had told him was possible. He had reached out, across the dimensions, and let the pull of Crowley’s soul guide him home. And he had found a body and ridden it to the end of the world. And he had tumbled into the last confrontation. He had watched the boy destroy the horsemen and stop Armageddon. And he had stood before his masters, the truth of him revealed. And he had made a choice. He had chosen a side.

When the moment had come - when it was finally time to act - Aziraphale had experienced a moment of complete and utter clarity. Taking a deep breath, he had known what to do.

He had stepped forwards. He had stood beside the boy and - though his mind was miraculously blank - words had somehow come to his aid. He had faced Gabriel and stated his case, garbled something about The Plan and Ineffability and Her, and Crowley stood beside him and done the same. And the leaders of the Heavenly and Hellish armies had left, in a fury. And then the Great Beast had risen up, and Aziraphale had thought it was all over, but Crowley - bless Crowley - had found some reservoir of strength beyond anything either of them could have anticipated. The demon had had his own moment of divine intervention, that day. He had reached out to something greater and it had reached back, and saved them all. 

Crowley had bought them time. And the pair of them had given the boy courage. Holding Adam Young’s hands, they had led the young Antichrist back into the world, balancing him as they’d always intended to. And he had made his own choice. And he had chosen to be something new. Something quite beyond anything anyone could have predicted. 

He had chosen the Earth, and everything in it. And love. 

Whatever Heaven says, about those who turned from the light, Aziraphale knows that they were not alone, that day, on the runway. She had been with them, as he had always hoped she would. 

Running a thumb over the back of the demon’s hand, the angel feels a quiet elation filling him up. This is their world, he thinks. They chose this place, together. They are building a life here, together. They’re building a home - a strange, blended mix of both their flats - together. They are building a future. Laying the foundations of what they want to do with their power and their time, here. Building a legacy. Protecting the beautiful complexity of the people they have guided, for so many years. If they are anything, really, the angel thinks, then they are guardians of this place. Not quite an angel, or a demon, anymore, but something new. 

“You really are very beautiful, you know,” he tells Crowley, softly. He’s feeling very soft, and very full of love, and he’s never been very good at denying himself. 

“ _Ugh_ ,” the demon pulls a face, gives a helpless little look skywards. “Must you?”

“Yes,” the angel answers, simply. “I’m really quite in love with you, and sometimes I need to share that.”

Crowley stares straight ahead with the sort of fixed quality one might associate with someone listening to their last rites. 

“I think I preferred you when you were too shy to speak your mind,” he mutters, eventually.

“No you didn’t.”

The demon’s eyes flicker momentarily down, then dart up again. 

“Did so.”

They sit for a minute, then Aziraphale gives a sigh and reaches behind him, into the pocket of his cardigan. Gently untangling the fingers of his other hand from the demon’s, he offers out the small package he has retrieved - a soft bag of something, wrapped in Christmas paper. 

“I got you something.” 

The demon blinks, eyebrows sliding up towards his hairline.

“ _You_ got _me_ a present?”

“Yes.”

“You - Aziraphale of the Eastern gate, slightly wayward angel and continual forgetter of gifts?” 

Joy tugs the angel’s mouth into an even wider smile. He’s practically beaming, now. He probably looks quite silly, but he really doesn’t care.

“Yes,” he nods, holding out the small package. “I thought it was a bit unfair, to offer you space by my fire as compensation, these days.”

“Well, so you should do, seeing as it’s my fire, too,” the demon mutters. “Besides, you don’t need an excuse, to see me naked, anymore. You get to watch me walking around in socks and a t shirt every morning. You’ve peaked.”

The angel's grin slips wider. 

“Here, take it.” 

Crowley looks hesitantly down at the parcel, for a few seconds. Then, he reaches out a hand and takes it. 

They have little traditions, the angel thinks, watching him turn the wrapped gift over in his hands. They’re forming them, all the time. Little jokes and memories, little stories that they both share. He can remember all of the Christmas presents Crowley has given him, over the years. He can remember the poignancy of all the moments they shared, around them. He can remember the love in the demon’s eyes, every time he offered one over. 

_Here, take this intention of mine. Share in the love I feel for you._

He can see a little hesitation in the demon’s eyes, now, because this part of Christmas is new. This is beyond the scope of their usual traditions. But Crowley is eager, too. The angel can feel it. 

“Go on, open it.” 

“All right, all right… Just trying to savour the moment. Haven’t had a Christmas present before, you know?”

The demon has sat up a little and the blanket has fallen open, around him. Aziraphale can see both of his sharp collarbones, now, and the dark hair scattered across his chest. He can see the red-pink edge of one nipple, and a little indentation in the skin at the top of his belly, folded over by his terrible posture. 

It’s easier to focus on these details, at the moment, because his heart is in his mouth, as he watches his friend open the parcel, revealing a small leather pouch, which he turns over in his hands. 

“Open it,” the angel prompts, gently. 

The demon does, slipping two long fingers inside, to pull out a gold band, marked along the inner edge with the slightest imprint of scales. 

He sort of freezes, staring down at it. Then, his eyes dart up to meet Aziraphale’s, pupils blown wide. 

He doesn’t speak. Looks incapable of speech. 

“I had it made,” the angel tells him, amazed at how calm his voice sounds, even though he can hear his heartbeat slamming away in his ears. “There was a lovely girl, over in Shoreditch, who melted down my ring and mixed it with the metal from the golden clasp you gave me, all those years ago. Our first Christmas gift.” He takes a long breath, watches Crowley continue to watch him, like a deer in headlights. “I know it’s a human thing, but…” he steadies himself by pressing his hands together in his lap, forces himself to keep looking up, at the demon. “Well, I wanted to do something to mark how things are, between us, even if it is only symbolic. And I wanted to do it outside, you know? Because the only opinion that means anything to me - apart from yours of course - is Hers.” He makes the tiniest of motions towards the sky. 

Crowley’s eyes perform the tiniest of sweeps upwards, then fix back down, on him. 

“So, I suppose,” Aziraphale pushes on, “it’s really just a thing to show what you mean to me. Because I know we know what we mean, to one another, but sometimes it’s nice for everyone else to be able to see it, too.” 

There is a few moments of silence after he finishes. Then Crowley gives a shaky inhale and mutters, 

“Fuck, Aziraphale…”

There’s something incredibly soft in it, despite the crudeness of the word - something hopeful and happy. There is love spilling out of the demon, flooding the air between them, surrounding the angel. It’s warm enough to banish the cold from the night entirely. Probably for a few miles, in every direction.

“Is it okay?” Aziraphale asks his friend, softly. 

“It…” Crowley looks up, then back down again at the ring, then opens his mouth and closes it a few times, without quite managing to form words. Then he gives a little cough, and a swallow, and a nod. “Yeah, it is okay, angel. It’s very okay.” 

When he looks up again, his eyes are slightly brighter than usual. 

“You don’t have to wear it, if it’s not really your-,”

“I’m going to wear it,” the demon mutters, quickly.

“Okay…” 

Reaching into his front pocket, the angel pulls out a matching band, holds it up for Crowley’s inspection. 

Hesitantly, the demon takes the ring and compares it with his own - cradles one in each palm, looking down on them. 

They’re nearly the same. The pattern on the inside edge of Crowley’s, which is the exact pattern of the underside of his snakeform, is replaced, on Aziraphale’s, with the the imprint of a feather vane. Individual strands, pressed into gold. 

“Yours?” Crowley asks, nodding down at it.

The angel nods. 

Bless the jeweller. She hadn’t asked what sort of bird he had had feathers three feet long and softer than silk. She had just smiled and made the angel what he asked for, sending him on his way with best wishes. Humans were unspeakably lovely, sometimes. 

“Alright.” Crowley clears his throat, seeming to gather himself somewhat. “Well… Give me your hand, then?” 

A little surprised, but highly pleased, Aziraphale does. And the demon slips a band over his finger, a look of complete concentration on his face as he does.

When he lifts his hand to look more carefully, the angel notices he’s put the one with the snake pattern on him. 

“Oh, this one is-,”

“I know,” Crowley interrupts, softly. 

Golden eyes slither over his, expression a little shy. 

“I just thought… you wear mine, I wear yours. Then we’re, you know-,” he shrugs, cheeks flushing, “together, a bit… Even when we’re not.”

The warm core of Aziraphale, which is already fairly melted by this point, dissolves the rest of the way into a pile of goo. He probably mumbles Crowley’s name, and some endearment, because the demon blushes further and rolls his eyes. 

He continues to push the feather-patterned ring onto his finger, though, and then slides his hand over, to knot into the angel’s. And then, as Aziraphale sits, beaming down at their joined fingers, he gives a little groan - seemingly at himself - and tugs the angel out of his seat and up, into a tight hug. 

Their arms wrap around one another, faces pressing into necks, quite oblivious to the slightly awkward angle, and the fact the demon’s blanket has now fallen down to around his waist, and that they’re up on a roof, in the cold, early on a Christmas evening. All of that, the angel thinks, is a little romantic, anyway. And, though Crowley pretends not to like that sort of thing, the angel knows that the demon does. 

“Thank you, angel,” Aziraphale’s friend mutters, against his neck, causing another rush of love to swoop through his belly. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

It’s the first time they’ve said it face to face. Or, almost face to face, anyway. The angel is not sure Crowley’s ready to look one another straight in the eye and say it, yet. There are still a lot of the old barriers that he built, to protect himself, in place. He’s still very shy when it comes to verbalising emotion. Which is fine, Aziraphale thinks, because he can feel it - and Crowley has always been a creature of actions, anyways. They don’t really need words. 

They cling onto one another for a good minute or so, at a slightly awkward angle, then they draw back so that Crowley can look up at him. 

“You want to get in on this hammock situation?” The demon asks, guilelessly. 

The angel glances down.

“I don’t think it will take both of us, dear.”

“It will. It won’t know how the physics of it all works out - but it will.”

The angel sighs, but climbs in anyway.

The process is awkward and takes more than a little magic to accomplish, and Crowley is laughing fit to burst by the time they’ve managed to slide his body in and tug the blanket up to wrap around both of them. As they arrange themselves comfortably, Aziraphale’s friend - his lover, his partner, his mate - watches him carefully, his eyes very warm. Aziraphale is sure his eyes must have looked this way many, many times, over the past several thousand years. He’s glad the tinted glass between them has finally been removed. 

Sliding one leg between the demon’s he rests a hand against his side. He can fee the hard edge of ribs, the lean columns of muscle.

“You must be freezing,” he murmurs. “Why are you naked, anyway?”

“Didn’t put clothes on,” Crowley shrugs, as if this is an answer. 

The angel sighs. 

“Well get closer, then. I’ll keep you warm.”

“You’ll keep me warm?” There is gentle tease in Crowley's eyes, a soft joy in the way he wriggles forwards, to press their bellies together, to hook a leg over the top of Aziraphale’s thigh. “I’ve got an angel to keep me warm,” he smiles, then turns his head and calls up to the sky; “I’m going to assume you’re okay with this, because there’s been no bolt of lightning or anything… Am I right?”

“Crowley…” the angel pushes at his side, admonishingly. 

The demon chuckles. 

“Just checking.” 

They lie for a moment, watching one another. Then, gently, the demon leans in and presses a very soft kiss against his mouth. 

“Merry Christmas, angel,” he murmurs, softly. 

“Merry Christmas, Crowley.” The angel murmurs back. 

They lie there with their faces just an inch apart for a few minutes. Then, Crowley draws his head back, giving a frown. 

“I don’t have to wear a white dress and learn lots of lots of nonsense about flowers, at any point, do I?”

The angel chuckles. 

“Not unless you want to.”

“S’not really my colour.”

“Then, we can just wear the rings and everyone will assume they’ve always known.” Aziraphale leans in, pressing a kiss against the edge of the demon's sharp cheekbone. “And you can wear,” he kisses his forehead, “anything,” kisses the dark sweep of a brow, “you like.” He rests their noses together, for a moment. “Or nothing at all, if you prefer.” Then he kisses him softly on the mouth and draws back, to examine the exasperated expression that results. 

“This is disgusting.” Crowley mutters at him. Then, after a moments quiet consideration, adds, “I’m enjoying myself, thoroughly. Don’t stop.”

The angel laughs. 

They lie for a bit, pressed against one another, hands slowly tracing the bits of bodies they can reach. Crowley points out a few more stars. Aziraphale tells him a bit more about how the rings were made. 

“You want to stay out here, tonight?” The demon asks, eventually. 

“Crowley, you'll freeze!”

“Nah we won’t. I have an angel, to keep me warm.” 

“Oh, I suppose you do…” He buries his face in the side of Crowley’s head, drinks in the scent of his hair, his skin. That mix of sandalwood and cedar. Something burned. Something sweet. “Alright,” he sighs, into the darkness of him. “We’ll stay. As long as you like.”

A slender hand wraps around the side of him, thumb pressing into the flesh of his hip.

“Good.”

“Mmm.”

The night grows gently darker overhead. The world continues around them.

“Goodnight, Crowley.”

“Night, angel.”

And life goes on.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, chaps, it's been fun. Big apologies for the last few chapters being posted so late, and without any decent editing. I would love to be able to blame REAL LIFE for this lapse but, actually, missing deadlines is just who I am, as a person.  
> Anyway, I hope you have all enjoyed this story and a huge thank you to everyone who has commented. It's brilliant to hear what you all think and which bits you like best. I find the feedback super helpful. So, huge, huge, huge thanks for all the support.  
> Oh, and I hope the fluff made up for all the ANGST!  
> :). C.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me lurking on [IG](https://www.instagram.com/heycaricari/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/heycaricari), and [Tumblr](https://heycaricari.tumblr.com/) @heycaricari


End file.
